


The Soldier and the Dragon

by BibliophileLove



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alchemy, Alternate Universe, Chemistry, Dubious Consent, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Shapeshifting, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, anger issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:58:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 45,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1668848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BibliophileLove/pseuds/BibliophileLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU- An adaption of Beauty and the Beast, where Sherlock is the beast (got the idea from Smaug). John has an accident in the woods late one night and wakes up in an unfamiliar room. His host isn't entirely human, and entirely hostile. Please kudos and comment? <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So I got the idea into my head to do a remake of Beauty and the Beast, using Sherlock and John. This is going to be a slow building story, just so you're prepared. It will have violent moments, and I will most certainly earn the M rating, so if you're not into that then turn away now. You have been warned.
> 
> I might have a little trouble keeping them in character for this project, for the purposes of recreating this as an adaption of Beauty and the Beast, but I will damn sure try my hardest. I love the characters of John and Sherlock and it's hard to do them justice (especially Sherlock).
> 
> The beginning chapters will also be a little short, but they will get longer as the story progresses, I promise. I feel as though it is implied, but I'll mention it anyway. Reviews are very much appreciated. Thank you in advance.
> 
> One more thing, I do not have a beta. Any mistakes are my own fault, and I apologize for them.

The rancid stench of piss and beer followed John relentlessly as he walked, lingering and coating his hair and clothes. The steadily dimming lights of the pub behind him lit up the ground for him as he stepped carefully along the path, skittering over small stones as he began to lose the helpful glow. The noise faded along with the light, a welcome heavy silence sneaking in in it’s place.

Tall pines and oaks stood above him, their twisting branches sheltering him from the small patches of the lingering light of the stars as though they were doing him a favor. Their eerie creaking settled over him ominously, complaining as a breeze pushed them against each other in the darkness. The air was chilled, too cool for so early in the fall. John pulled his coat more tightly around him, watching as his breath fogged in front of his face. He quickened his pace nervously.

His shoulder ached with increased fervor as he strode through the woods in the direction of his cabin. The small space beckoned him, promising a warm hearth, hot tea, and a cold, lonely bed. His mouth twisted down into a pained grimace as he stubbornly reinforced the feeling of contentment. He was not lonely. He was not unhappy. He was fine.

_“John, I know you’re not doing well. Frankly, it’s becoming more obvious every time I see you. Have you tried to re-enlist? Perhaps use your skills in a non-combat zone or-“_

_“They won’t take me, Mike. I’ve tried. ‘Not physically fit for duty’ they say.”  John replied, taking a deep swallow of the pint before slamming it onto the the table bitterly, while pointedly ignoring his friends pitying expression._

The darkness was complete now, an inky black that surrounded him, attempting to suffocate him with it’s thickness. On the contrary, he found the quiet gloom to be a relief to the stifling heat and stench of the crowd in the pub. He knew this darkness, it was familiar and comforting. The beaten path under his feet wielded to him obediently, every bend and dip remained exactly where he had remembered it to be. He didn’t need to see the rotting pine across the dirt to step over it. He knew that the glow of eyes in the dark was merely an owl, blinking at him without interest. The sound of rustling leaves didn’t startle him, as he knew it was only the breeze stirring the dead foliage in the air.

_“Well, something else then? Surely there is something? What about the city guard? They could probably use a doctor, even if it’s just on an as needed basis. Pulling out arrow’s and whatnot?” Mike offered, not bothering to smother the desperation in his tone._

_“I live too far from the city. It takes hours by foot, less by horse but even minutes could mean life or death. They would die waiting on me.” He murmured, resigned._

__

Thick green moss dampened the sound of his boots as he walked, the set of his shoulders stiff with leftover grievance from dinner. There was a heavy feeling in the air, humid and charged, with the threat of incoming rain. Soon the dirt beneath his feet would turn to mud, and instead of the dust covering his calves there would be gritty splashes of wet earth. The dry leaves would become heavy with drops of water, unable to continue clinging weakly to their branches. They would fall, littering the ground and leaving no barrier between him and the light of the moon filtering through the clouds. John only hoped that the rain would be patient and allow him time to reach the cabin before it assaulted the earth.

_“Then leave that blasted cabin to rot and come stay with me! I have a spare room John, we could-“_

__

_“I believe I’m done for the night, Mike. It’s a long walk home and it’s already late. I’ll see you next week, yeah? I’ll buy. My pension will have arrived by then.” Mike’s protests were drowned out by the sound of his chair scraping loudly across the dirty wooden floor. John jerked his chin down in a quick, silent goodbye before he walked away with sharp movements, the need to escape the confines of the loud pub becoming unbearable. He could feel Mike’s eyes on his back as he retreated shamefully._

__

He continued to walk, his arms wrapped tightly around his own torso in an attempt to keep the cold at bay. Each huff of breath fogged about his face, each stirring of the air around him ruffled his short hair. He was still a while from his cabin, and his shoulder ached in complaint at the thought. It occurred to him again that the air was much too cold for early fall. Had it been this cold earlier, on his trek to the pub? No, not that he could recall.

A fox yipped somewhere nearby as he stepped absently over damp patch of earth. It wouldn’t do for him to slip and fall, not with the air this chilled and the temperature only dropping. The thought of laying unconscious in the dark, helpless and easy prey for the animals of the night filled him with caution, and an inspiration to pay extra attention to his feet. Though the path was familiar, the woods were treacherous and often had a mind of their own. John had no delusions that he was the master of these trees. He was merely a passenger, allowed to tread through their depths. They could turn easily, and John would be powerless against their will.

He reached for the comforting weight of the pistol at his back, tucked carefully into his trousers with practice. A gust of wind stirred him, dry leaves rustled and were ripped from the branches so high above his head. The undergrowth around his legs came alive with purpose, and that purpose was to unsettle him and chase away his previous confidence.

His familiar woods were suddenly sinister and mocking, chastising him for his misplaced bravado. He slowed, coming to a stop as he strained his ears, listening to the voice of the trees. His fingers lingered on the butt of his gun as he stilled, taking comfort in the metal as a child would in a blanket in the dark. He knew this forest. He had grown up here, wandering it’s depths and exploring its secrets. He knew the sound of the squirrels as they chattered and scattered up the trees. He knew the slide of a snake across the leaves, and the sharp tap of a woodpecker as it jabbed its beak into the wood. He knew the smell of the earth in the spring, and the individual wildflowers that littered along the base of the pines.

He did not know the agonizingly unfamiliar sound in the distance, disturbing the air in a steady rhythm. _Thud, thud, thud._

John’s breath stilled, even as his heart pounded faster. His body was suddenly alive and hyperaware of his surroundings. Everything had gone quiet, the fickle breeze had ceased, the buzz of crickets had been silenced, the fox was cowering somewhere in the dark. The only sound was the _thud, thud, thud,_ as it gained volume, coming ever closer to John’s frozen body on the path.

He no longer felt the cold as blood rushed through his body, adrenaline leaving him breathless and full of itching energy. Resisting the urge to bolt, he forced himself to remain still and silent as he listened to the noise coming from somewhere in the blackness. _Thud, thud, thud._

The sound was becoming so loud that he could physically feel the air being disturbed around him. The trees and bushes around him rustled, but not with a natural wind. Whatever was coming towards him, it was large, large enough to create a wind with enough strength to bring the forest around him to life with motion. _Thud, thud, thud._

A loud crack of wood breaking finally pushed John into a flurry of motion. He turned away from the sound, heedless of the path as he simultaneously pulled his pistol from his trousers. He burst through the undergrowth, scrambling over tree roots and briar bushes as he fled from the noise. The thudding had ceased, but the sound of trees being torn apart and some massive creature ripping through the earth had him gasping, the instinct of self preservation pushing his body away, away from the unknown beast.

He fell in his haste, once, twice, a third time. Sharp branches and rocks in the earth cut at him, leaving him bleeding in various places that he could not feel. The pain would come later, after the flight. If he survived whatever seemed to be pursuing him. Panting, he tried to turn, to angle his ear towards the sound as he ran, only to be assaulted with a deafening roar so guttural that it made his very bones resonate. Unable to stop himself, he cried out with terror as another burst of adrenaline rocketed through him, pushing him faster still.

Whatever was behind him was not only large and powerful enough to snap tree’s and shake the ground beneath his feet, but it was _angry. Very angry._

__

In his blind haste, John tripped over a root and went sprawling across the uneven forest floor, knocking his head against something hard and unyielding as he collided with the earth. His pistol went flying through his hand, hidden by the dark as it thudded across the ground and out of reach. John blinked, unable to tell if his lack of vision was from the collision or because of the absolute blackness around him. The sound in his ears seemed muffled, and he sluggishly brought a hand to the side of his head to feel warm, wet blood pouring from the point of impact. His internal sense of balance was compromised, the ground swayed underneath him and he felt dizzy and sick. His army training dimly informed him that he was probably going to black out, and he would be lying here helpless in the cold when the monster came upon him. He vaguely wondered if anyone would ever find his body, with as far as he had run from the path.

 **  
** Then the shaking ground went still, and all sound ceased as he lay spawned on his back, staring up at the tree tops above him. The last thing he felt was the heavy _thud, thud, thud,_ in the air, and the solid weight of his own body upon the damp earth.


	2. Chapter Two

Flickering images scampered across John's consciousness, like dappled sunlight through the thick spring leaves of an old oak tree. Each was fleeting, coming and going before he could grab hold and cling to it tightly, using it as leverage to assure his unconscious mind of its well-being. Trying to hold them captive was like trying to cup water in his hands, no matter how tightly his fingers cupped themselves around the cool liquid, it always trickled through and escaped.

Visions of Harry, years ago before he shipped off to the army, her red eyes tight as she pulled him in for a hug. A mental picture of his cabin, with it’s old wooden walls and dirty stone floor, the creaky rocking chair and crumbling fireplace. The small pile of blankets in the corner that made up his bed, the chamber pot shoved up against the opposite wall.

His parents tombstones, bereft of flowers, with weeds creeping up on the graves with no one to tend to them. Mike’s deceptively cheerful face, smiling over the top of his pint as they sat for dinner every weekend when John went into town for supplies.

And strange, nonsensical things such as a broken cup on the floor of his childhood home, letters carved into a tree, words that he couldn’t understand. A bird with a broken wing, hobbling along the side of the river that John used to swim in as a young boy. The first taste of stolen beer on his tongue, and windows longer than he was tall rising up, with the light of the moon so bright upon them that the surface reflected only the images put in front of them, hiding the contents behind them from view.

Then there were more solid memories, such as the faces of his comrades in arms as they sat around a campfire in the wilderness, laughing and telling stories of home. The visions became sharper and more focused, and he was taken through one of their many missions overseas, his body heavy with gear as they trekked through a treacherous forest in enemy territory.

There were the sounds of gunshots and men screaming, voices barking orders and other voices crying and begging helplessly as fingers grabbed at John, digging into him painfully as they gripped him. He tried to shake his head, to pry the hands away from him as he ordered them to be still so he could treat them, but the fingers only held harder. Sharp pains flared all over his body and he cried out, screaming as he jolted to awareness, rising from his prone position to blink at the darkness around him.

He was in a room, a large space, bigger than his entire cabin. The floor and walls were smooth stone, and there were thick bear skins upon the floor. He was sitting on a bed, with cotton blankets stretched over him and a fire roaring soothingly in the fireplace on the other side of the room. John could feel it’s heat on his sweat damp skin.

There were no windows, giving John no indication of what time it was, or even what day. Flickering lamps were bracketed to the walls, giving plenty of light to see the skins and artfully woven tapestries decorating the wide stone walls. Depictions of war, of men riding horses into battle and brandishing ancient swords captivated his eye for a few seconds before he tore his gaze away.

For a brief moment he thought someone had brought him to the castle in the city, as surely that was the only place to have rooms as grand as this, but upon remembering the reasons for his current condition, he dismissed the idea.

His head ached fiercely. Gently, he brought his fingers to the wound on the side of his skull, wincing as he felt the dried blood. Another mental check over his body found numerous aches and pains, particularly on his shins and forearms from where he repeatedly fell, with cuts and bruises covering his skin. His clothes were ripped and dirty, with splotches of blood from his wounds.

But though he was thoroughly roughed up, he seemed to be in full working order. Taking another look around, he suddenly wondered who his host was, who had pulled him from the forest floor and taken him into the shelter of their home. Stifling a groan, he pulled the covers back and swung his legs over the side of the bed, setting his feet on the floor tenderly. The stone was clean, clearly regularly swept and treated. There was a plush armchair next to his bed, as though someone had sat and watched him while he slept. The seat was cold. Whoever had been there, had gone long ago.

John took a breath and stood, testing his balance. He swayed momentarily, but remained standing after a moment to right himself. Whoever had brought him to the castle and placed him in bed hadn’t bothered to remove his clothes or dress his wounds. Someone without medical knowledge, then?

His boots were silent on the stone as he walked slowly, carefully across the room to it’s only door. It was thick and wooden, and swung easily on massive, well oiled hinges. John crept through, taking in the long hallway that stretched out on either side. He must be in a castle! There was no other place it could be, with such grand structure. Wooden beams arched overhead, each bigger around than his torso. More bracketed oil lamps lined the walls, lighting the way down the hall on each side, while woven rugs stretched down it’s length. John looked to either side and chose to go left, walking slowly in silence.

Where was everyone? Surely a place so massive and well kept required staff? There must be a servant nearby that he could question. He stubbornly ignored the pounding in his head and the ache of his limbs as he walked, knowing that his condition was not serious. He was most certainly dehydrated, and could benefit from a hot meal, but his vision was clear and his mind was working unhindered. His injuries could wait a little while longer, while he solved the mystery of his location.

There were other doors along the hall, John put his ear to some of them, listening for any noise or suggestion of occupancy, but all were silent. When he rounded a corner and found a wide, curving staircase he gasped at its magnificence, at its wide polished steps and waxed banisters. Cautious and in awe, he started down the staircase in search of someone, anyone, who could answer his questions. When he rounded the stone wall and came to the bottom he could only gape at the elegant landing, the expansive high ceilings and massive windows, taller than three men combined.

He was drawn to the windows, eager to see the view beyond. The moon shone brightly, from it’s position in the sky John assumed that it was very early morning, and that the sun would rise in mere hours. He was still unsure if he had been asleep for half an hour or an entire day.

As he neared the translucent glass, he gasped aloud. The sight before him was stunning, and captivated him completely. The castle was larger, much larger, than he had originally anticipated. He was not in the city as he had briefly suspected. This massive structure put the city castle to shame.

He was on the second floor, or third, it was hard to tell. The high stone walls rose around, towers and parapets rising far above his head. There were obviously more floors above him, and the structure as a whole seemed to go on for over a mile. The dark grey stone and arching windows suggested hundreds of rooms, and that was only what he could see from this side!

The gardens stretched out before the window he looked out of, a neatly manicured lawn gleamed in the light of the bright moon. High walls separated the grounds from the dark forest beyond, the tops of trees going on for miles and miles. John could see no other hint of civilization in the distance.

He stood, transfixed by the sight. Whoever was master of this estate must be someone very important indeed. John felt suddenly insecure at his state of dress, his hand lingering up to the caked blood and grime on the side of his face and head. Surely they would not think poorly of him, after having rescued him from the forest floor?

At the thought, John wondered what became of the beast pursuing him. Was it still out there, hiding in the trees for unsuspecting travelers to wander across it’s path? He gazed pensively out at the silent, still forest as he remembered the roar, the painful thudding in the air. A shiver ran over him as he imagined whatever fate he had so unwittingly escaped.

So lost was he in his musings that he almost didn’t hear the faint noise from behind. Silent as it was in the cavernous room, the minute sound echoed, thrumming in John’s ears and causing a sharp turnabout, eyes scanning the gloom as a cloud passed over the moon, casting him in shadow. There was a hall to his left, opposite the staircase he had descended from. The flickering light of the oil lamps hid any movement, so alive was the light, but John could distinctly hear a subtle noise coming from it’s depths.

With a no small amount of caution, and maybe a small amount of fear, he padded silently across the spotless stone floor and into the hallway, listening intently. It was a tinkling noise, as if small pieces of glass were clinking together gently. Someone was moving about, certainly. Perhaps John would finally gain the answers he sought?

There were more door’s along the hall, but it was the open door at the end that held his attention so effortlessly. The bright light of a fire coming through the open crack was telling, as was the shadow moving across the beam of light occasionally. John was suddenly nervous, licking dry lips to wet them as he heaved a silent breath to steady himself. His fingers brushed the polished wood of the door and hesitated, then pushed gently. What he saw took his breath away with a rush.

The room was not barren like the one that John had woken in, but full of strange objects and devices that John had no name for. The walls were lined with shelves, full of books and glasses containing various unknown substances. Where there were no shelves, there were papers stuck to the wall, papers with writings and drawings and diagrams that left John baffled.

In the center of the busy room was a long table, on which occupied what seemed to be a chemist's set. A tall figure stood with his back to John, facing the fire and tinkering with glass vials on a table the front of him. The man seemed strangely misshapen, with sharp ridges where there should have been softer angles to his form. What at first John thought was wild unkempt hair, he discovered upon closer inspection, seemed to be seemed to be some sort of cap or helmet, covered with spikes and ridges.

He seemed to be clothed, but with the light casting his frame in shadow it was hard to tell. His form was long and lean, with sharp points at this shoulders and accompanied by jerking movements as though he was highly irritated. But it was the noise he made that brought John to pause, voice suddenly seizing in his throat. The growl. That same vicious growl of the creature in the forest.

An arm shot out in a violent outburst, wrecking vials of potions on the table and sending the delicate glass pieces crashing to the floor. John had a mere moment to take in the arm, unnaturally thin and bony, and the hand that completed it, long fingers with supernatural claws tipping their ends, before he let out the gasp that would enable his discovery.

The man, the creature, turned and laid wide, startled eyes upon him. Two pairs of eyes locked in an unrelenting exposure of what was surely never meant to be seen. He was a monster, there was no other word for it. What John had thought was a helmet or headgear of some sort, was simply his head. Instead of hair, there were spikes, made of what appeared to be hard scales, or black bone. His face, twisted with an expression that appeared to be horror, was inhumanly shaped. His nose and mouth were slightly elongated, just enough so that at a farther distance he could have been mistaken for a normal man.

The few feet between them did nothing to hide the truth from John. Most of his face seemed pale, the skin of a man, while the edges of his chin and jaw were darker, skin turning hard and reptilian. John could now see that he was indeed clothed, in fine leather trousers and knee high soft soled boots, with a clean white cotton shirt. The strings at his throat were left untied, leaving the hollow of his throat bare to inspection, and John could see that the tentative reptilian skin was not merely on his jaw.

And even as John watched, he changed, becoming more deformed, more monstrous. The spines on his head and the back of his neck became longer and sharper, his claws grew until his hands were scaly appendages straight out of nightmares. His face, now contorted with rage, elongated and his mouth opened in a snarl, baring sharp teeth that no mere human mouth would accommodate.

John turned and attempted to flee, but before he could take two steps the creature was upon him. The hard line of his body pressed against John’s back as those impossibly long arms encased him, unweilding as John tried to struggle desperately against his hold. A low growl erupted from the creature's chest, reverberating through John through the close contact. Claws as long as human fingers gripped at him, piercing his shirt as they held him immobile.

John was not willing to give up without a fight, however, and rebelliously continued to struggle. The growl intensified and he was lifted up off of the floor, his feet swinging helplessly as he fought. The creature started to carry him briskly down the hall as John squirmed, grunting with the effort. The arms were like iron bars around him, the claws like knives. In his struggle, he unintentionally pressed into the claws on one hand and they puncture the skin over his ribs, slicing through his flesh like butter. John cried out, tears pricking his eyes at the pain. He only increased his struggle.

The creature was practically running now, down the hall and into another, down a staircase into a darker part of the castle. The lamps were fewer, the air stale. With his arms pinned to his side, John gripped at anything he could, fingers finding little purchase in the cotton shirt or leather trousers his captor wore. He might as well have been pulling at the stone floor for all the good it was doing him.

Eventually John tried to kick out with his feet and his foot collided with the creature's leg, causing a sharp gasp of pain from the monster carrying him. John felt a grim satisfaction and tried to kick out again, only to feel a sharp, excruciating pain in the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Hot, wet heat engulfed the aforementioned area and it took John a moment to realize that the thing was _biting him._

Those massive teeth were slicing into his shoulder, right over dangerous arteries and John knew that he if continued to squirm then it would only cause more damage. Damage that might actually kill him. He ceased all his movement, crying out with the pain as the beast held him immobile, like a cat with it’s prey.

Only a few more quick strides brought them to a heavy iron door. John blinked blearily through the pain, watching as the monster pushed it open with merely a flick of his wrist. John gasped out as he felt the teeth extract and he was thrown unceremoniously to the cold stone floor. Hot, biting tears of pain spilled over his cheeks and he pushed a hand underneath himself, bringing another to his neck as he turned angrily to the door. Only to find it slamming shut with finality, leaving him alone on the damp dungeon floor.

 


	3. Chapter Three

It had been hours, an unending amount of hours. John sat, sore and bleeding, on the hard stone floor. He had dozed for a while, unable to keep his eyes open, but it had to have been at least two days that he had been locked in the room, judging from the healing of his wounds. Two days without food or water, without medical attention, without any sign of help or even his monstrous _host._

Without even a chamber pot, he had been forced to piss into the drain in the floor of the center of the room. That had been the first day. He hadn’t felt the need to urinate in hours. It was not a good sign. The wound on his neck was festering, and John was quite positive it had become infected. Human mouths held all sorts of vile contaminants, he could only imagine what was in the mouth of that beast. The puncture wounds on his side had began to scab over, but were red and hot to the touch. He needed medical attention. Without it, he would die.

John was beginning to lose hope, beginning to think that he would indeed die in the horrid, empty room that he had been confined to. That his corpse would forever rot here, unattended and forgotten. How ironic that John had been afraid of living out the rest of his long life alone, with too much time on his hands and nothing to do with it. Well, that certainly didn’t seem to be a problem anymore.

His body ached fiercely, his shoulder was stiff from lack of movement. In order to slow the flow of his blood in an attempt to not lose anymore than necessary, John had sat still on the floor, only moving if he absolutely had to. His reward had been that he lost the minimal amount of blood, as he had intended. But the punishment had been the stiffness in his body, his limbs refusal to operate as commanded. His body was shutting down.

After realizing that his captor had no intentions of setting him free anytime soon, John began to strive for sleep. His body needed rest, he needed to preserve his remaining strength for the moment that door finally opened, because when it did, John was going out of it, one way or another. With this determination set in mind, he slept fitfully. More hours passed uncounted as he dozed rigidly and without comfort.

He had no idea what time or even what day it was when he woke again, blinking slowly into consciousness and gritting his teeth at his own dead weight. Sharp pains caused his muscles to twitch violently as he lifted an arm, his right arm as the bite wound was on his left, and ran his hand over his stubbly face. His mind, so sluggish, took a few moments to notice that there was something different about the room.

An antique silver tray sat on the floor near the door, with a gleaming white porcelain tea pot and matching cup, a glass pitcher full of water, and a spotless white napkin folded elegantly, displaying a generous portion of bread and cheese. John blinked stupidly for a moment at the tray, before scrambling clumsily across the floor towards it. Forgoing the cup, he snatched up the pitcher of water and drank straight from the mouth of it, chastising himself for his haste when it spilled over the sides of his mouth and dribbled down his cheeks and neck.

He forced himself to put the pitcher down after he had drank half of it, and tore greedily into the bread and cheese. They were fresh and delicious, and John moaned at the taste. It nearly caused him physical pain to eat slowly, to not devour his small meal within seconds. His stomach cramped at the sudden assault, but John stubbornly ignored it’s painful protests as he ate, reveling in the thought that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t die here after all.

Had the creature left this food here? He looked down at the shiny silver tray, free of nicks or scratches. Images of those giant claws flashed across John’s vision. Surely that beast would have left some kind of mark. The teapot was delicate, almost feminine. No, he hadn’t anything to do with this. There must be someone else residing in the castle, someone who wanted to help him. John swallowed a thick bite of cheese as he felt hope bloom in his chest. Taking another generous swig of water, he swished the gifted liquid around in his mouth, chasing away the staleness of the last few days. His neck throbbed as his muscles pulled with the effort. If only they would leave him some medical supplies as well.

He finished off the rest of his meal and drank the rest of the water slowly. If he drank it all too quickly it would run straight through him and he would piss most of it out. In order for his body to absorb it better, he would have to pace himself. Groaning, he crawled back over to the wall with the pitcher of water and set it in his lap while he closed his eyes.

His stomach was full and bloated, sloshing uncomfortably as he situated himself. His neck was throbbing after so much movement. He felt slow and dumb, first from lack of nourishment, and now from too much so fast. Even though his body was well rested, it had been so abused that it was expending too much effort to heal itself, and now to digest the food he had eaten. As much as it bothered him, he needed sleep. He needed to rest, to preserve his energy.

John took another long gulp of water, feeling his breathing slow. He made a decision to sleep lightly, to be somewhat aware as he dozed so that he would know the next time the door was opened. If his secret ally came again, perhaps he could persuade him or her to smuggle him out of the castle, or at the very least procure some medical equipment so that he could tend to his wounds. His neck throbbed again insistently.

John sighed, letting his grip on the glass pitcher loosen. He kept his face towards the door and let himself shut down once again. It didn’t take long. His body was so heavy, so sated after eating. The room was quiet, almost too quiet as he began to doze. He vaguely noted the beginning of pressure in his bladder before he was too deep under to care.

**  
  
**

A distant roar woke John, jerking him out of his sleep with a start. He pushed himself off of the floor quickly, blood rushing to his head with the sudden movement. He stumbled and pressed a hand against the cold stone wall to steady himself. As his vision cleared, another deafening sound reverberated through the walls, causing the stone to tremble. A crash echoed somewhere in the castle, quickly accompanied by the sounds of glass shattering. The noise was distant, but loud, as it whatever had broken was massive. It continued to echo, as if more, smaller pieces were still being broken apart violently.

John breathed in quick, nervous bursts as he strained his ears, listening to whatever havoc was being wrecked throughout the castle. It could have only been the beast. From what John had seen, he had quite the temper. John imagined him breaking walls and and furniture, his massive clawed hands easily ripping wood and stone and glass apart. He wondered what had set him off.

Silence echoed for a few minutes and John sighed, clutching a hand to his chest to feel his own pounding heart. He ran his tongue over his teeth, grimacing at the sour taste in his mouth. Glancing around for the water pitcher, he groaned to see that whoever had brought him food had come again, and John hadn’t woken.

Another silver tray, or perhaps it was the same one, sat silent and perfect on the stone floor by the door. This time it held not only the teapot, cup, and a fresh pitcher of water, but also more bread and cheese, along with a large meaty turkey leg. John felt his mouth salivate at the sight.

He walked over and ripped into the leg, juice sliding down his chin as he savored the taste. Exquisite. He ate with more confidence now, awareness permeating his mind as the adrenaline faded away. Who kept bringing him food, and how did they manage to not wake him? Did they happen to arrive when he was sleeping, or did they time their arriving with purpose? How did they know when he was sleeping?

John glanced around the room for the hundredth time. There were no windows, only the drain in the middle of the floor. There wasn’t even a peephole in the door. There was no way they could know when he was sleeping. It had to be coincidence.

Next time they came, he would be awake and waiting for them. Sitting down with determination, he continued his meal in silence. With any luck, he would be out of the dungeon soon and free of the beast that had attacked him so brutally. He would have some stories to tell Mike, that was for sure!

Once he had devoured the food and drank his fill of the water, John used what remained in the pitcher to splash over his face, scrubbing furiously with his hands. After setting the glass carefully on the tray, he stood and relieved himself into the grate in the middle of the floor. He didn’t piss much, and the dark color and sour smell screamed dehydration.

Sighing, he returned to his usual spot against the wall. His back complained as he slid gingerly down the stone, sitting upright once again, facing the door. As he settled in for the long wait, John pulled off his boots and tugged his trousers up, inspecting the bruises and healing cuts along his shins. There was one particularly nasty splotch of green and purple along the lower length of his left leg where his foot had gotten caught in a root.

His injuries seemed to be healing for the most part, however, even the shallow punctures over his ribcage. The scabs were starting to flake away, showing the irritated pink scar tissue underneath. The only major concern that he could detect was the bite wound, which pulsated viciously. He brought his hand up to it timidly, wincing at the hot, swollen flesh. He wished he had a mirror, so he could inspect it thoroughly and determine the damage. Moving his head side to side experimentally, he decided there should be no major damage, as long as the infection was treated soon.

Leaning his head back against the wall, he sighed, rolling his injured shoulder around, stretching the knotted scar of his gunshot wound, the one that had been responsible for his discharge from her majesty's services. Without regular stretching and massaging, the tissue became hard and unyielding, restricting the use of his arm. After sitting so still for so long, it was stiff now, and painful. John continued to roll and stretch his shoulder to pass the time, bringing his hand up to rub the knot ruthlessly. He wanted to be unhindered when the time came.

The time passed slowly as he worked on his shoulder and stretched individual limbs. John couldn’t be sure if it had been only an hour or half a day by the time he needed to piss again. He stood over the grate with his prick hanging out as he relieved himself, sighing in blissful contentment as he noticed his urine looked much healthier now. When he was finished, he slid back down the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, letting the back of his head fall back against the stone.

If only he had a book, or a knife and a piece of wood, hell, he’d even take some thread and a knitting needle at this point! The hours of simply waiting were taking their toll, and John was so incredibly bored. He began to pass the time by counting the number of stones in the wall. When he reached number four hundred and twenty seven, his eyes drifted closed and he dozed again.

He dreamed fitfully, violent memories resurfacing to torment him. The images were so vivid, he could _feel_ the sand against his skin. He could _feel_ the burn of the sun on his face. He could _hear_ the gunshots, the screaming. When he felt the piercing pain of a bullet in his shoulder, he woke gasping, gripping at the scar and it’s phantom pain. He blinked rapidly in the dim light, breathing heavily as he tried to gather his scattered wits.

The air was noticeably colder, the room was darker. John scrubbed a hand over his face irritatedly, cursing himself for falling asleep. His gaze wandered to the oil lamps on the walls, noticing the low amount of oil and the dying flames above. The room was barely lit at all.

John looked over to the floor by the door to see that it was now empty, the tray and pitcher had disappeared, and nothing had taken their place. Leaning forward, John placed his face in his hands and rubbed at his temples, then ran his fingers through his grimy hair. He hadn’t washed in days, he must smell horrible.

He stood, pressing a hand into his lower abdomen as he tested his need to piss again. Just as he took a step towards the grate, a flash of light caught his attention. Snapping his face towards the flash, he noticed two pinpricks of silver in the corner of the room, hidden in the shadows created by the flickering fire. With a gasp, he watched as the small orbs disappeared, and reappeared rapidly. Not lights. _Eyes._

John jumped, pressing his back rigidly against the opposite corner. Heart palpitating rapidly, he sucked in a staggered breath as the eyes watched him motionlessly. Judging by their height, John could only conclude that it was the beast, observing him silently from the dark corner. When had it snuck in? How long had John been asleep?

He watched as the eyes narrowed a fraction, iris’s reflecting light from the fires like an animal. The creature made no move towards him, and after the initial shock faded, John’s courage began to return to him. He sucked in another gulp of air to boost his resolve and spoke.

“Who are you? Why are you keeping me here?” He demanded, pleasantly surprised by the strength of his own voice. The eyes blinked at him again, studying him. When the words reached his ears, they were not at all what he expected.

“I would suggest that you reconsider your tone. You entered my home without invitation or permission. Am I to entertain the notion that you had no inclination to harm my person or expose my location?” So smooth and articulate was his speech, that John could not match the voice to the monster he had seen earlier. He squinted, trying to see the figure in the darkness.

“Wha- I woke up here! _You’re_ the one who attacked _me_!” John found himself protesting indignantly. The eyes narrowed again, but the voice remained silent. “Look, I didn’t mean to trespass or anything. I wasn’t trying to attack you. If you just let me go, then we can both forget this ever happened.” John finished, trying to keep his voice even and unthreatening. He watched warily as he waited for a response.

“Let you go?” The voice answered, a growling undertone now. John swallowed involuntarily. The eyes seemed to raise higher a few inches, a soft rustling sound could be heard from the dark corner. “Let you go, so you can scamper off and tell stories of the monster who haunts the castle in the north, the beast who attacked you?” The eyes narrowed again and John bristled as the voice growled ever lower, continuing. _“I think not.”_ He spat, rumbling as the rustling sound intensified.

“You can’t keep me here forever!” John argued, taking a brave step away from the wall. It was a mistake.

“I am master of this castle, and I am inclined to do however I please. If I say you will rot in this dungeon, then _you will rot in this dungeon for the rest of your cursed existence._ ” The voice hissed at him, growing deeper with each word. Even through his fear and anger, John found himself fascinated by the creature and the change it seemed to experience with each passing second. He bit back his angry retort and took a deep, steadying breath as the eyes narrowed at him once again.

He paused, contemplating the best way to proceed. Arguing was obviously not doing him any good, perhaps he should try reasoning, or pleading with him. His hand twitched, aching to cover his neck, his flaring wound suddenly seemed exposed. He watched as those silver eyes flickered, following the minuscule movement. Reluctantly intrigued, John spoke again, with forced calm.

“Who are you?” He asked, silently praying that he would not set the beast off again. His question had the desired effect, and the creatures response was much more measured.

“Are you dim? I have just explained that I am the master of this estate.” He growled, his voice not quite as rough as before.

“No, I mean your name.” John requested again, more politely. His voice took on the tone he used to reassure his patients, his calm doctors voice. Perhaps he could reason with him after all.

“My name is of no consequence, and it will not matter to you. Why would you wish to know it?” The voice asked, returning to it’s normal baritone once again. With increased interest, John continued.

“If you tell me your name, I’ll tell you mine.” He offered, making an effort to relax his posture and appear harmless. The eyes narrowed again and the voice hesitated before responding.

“My name is… Sherlock Holmes.” He finally relented. A flicker of recognition ran through John’s mind before he dismissed the notion, making a note to think upon it later.

“Nice to make your acquaintance Mr. Holmes. My name is John Watson.” He said, bowing politely. The eyes narrowed again but he made no attempt to reciprocate the formality. No that he should have, as a lord. But some kind of attempt at civility would have been appreciated. John dismissed the slight and continued. “Perhaps we can discuss this unfortunate situation at length and come to a compromise.” John offered, taking another hesitant step forward. “Would you care to come into the light so we can speak properly?”

“I see no reason why we can’t speak as we are now. You do not need to lay eyes upon my face in order to hear my words.” Came the reply, with an undertone of a growl. John backtracked, knowing that he had to keep that growl at bay.

“I merely meant that I am unaccustomed to speaking to shadows, is all. Perhaps we could go somewhere and sit down properly and have a nice discussion? I would love to hear more about your castle. It is quite magnificent, from what I was able to see.” John persuaded gently. The creature made no inclination that he would respond, only studied John with those piercing, glowing eyes, which appeared to have lowered again. On a whim, John attempted again. “Step into the light, sir. I have already looked upon your face, I will not be shocked.” He tried gently, as though speaking to a child. The eyes narrowed and stilled while John waited with baited breath, before he heard a shuffling from the shadows that set his heart pounding once again.

Black leather boots came into his view first, unusually large, so large that they simply had to have been custom made to fit for the… person before him. They were slightly misshapen, as the rest of him had been when John had first set eyes upon him. He doubted the feet they contained were shaped like human feet. His legs came into view next, normal if a little thin. They were long and lean, as was the torso they were attached to. But it was the head, shoulders, and hands that were the most deformed.

His shoulders were wide, with dark ridges visible under his thin white shirt, as though black bone protruded like spines. Similar spines extended from his head, rolling away from his head like untamed hair, with two slightly longer horn like appendages rising out and dominating from just above his temples. His ears were human like in shape, but darkened near the tip. They bristled under John’s scrutiny, reminding John of the way a cat would flatten its ears when feeling threatened.

His arms were impossibly long, sharp points standing out at the elbow and wrists. The knuckles of his elongated hands were large and darkened, curved claws extending from the tips of his fingers. They flexed upon his inspection, causing John’s gaze to dart back up to his face.

A dark patina of gemlike scales coated most of his skin, leaving the hollow of his throat and his face bare. That face, that had been so strangely formed only days ago, was surprisingly normal now. A long straight nose, bow shaped lips tightened with strain, an arrogant brow and the sharpest eyes that John had ever seen. He was held immobile by those eyes, unable to look away now that he had been caught by their gaze.

He was, in all, the most striking creature that John had ever seen.

“If you’re quite finished.” He said, sneering arrogantly. John dropped his gaze, flushing with a fleeting feeling of shame before looking back up to Lord Holmes’s face.

“Forgive me, my lord. I’ve never encountered anyone like yourself before. I didn’t mean to stare.” John spoke with complete sincerity. He actually found himself… fascinated.

From a physician's point of few, Lord Holmes _was_ fascinating. John found himself wondering if the… spines… were actually bone, and what his skeletal structure must be like. He found himself longing to run hands over the planes of his body to satisfy his curiosity. One look at his host’s face supplied the notion that his interest would most certainly not be welcome.

“I will consider your request Doctor Watson. In the meantime, you will remain in this room until I see fit to release you. I expect I will see you soon. Good evening.” Lord Holmes spoke, his smooth voice distracting John momentarily from the meaning of his words. John started, noticing how his host seemed to be withdrawing. His eyes, though staring straight at John, appeared unseeing as he took a step back, closer to the door.

“No, wait! You can’t just leave me in here, please!” John pleaded suddenly, reluctant to part from his strange host. Reluctant to be alone again. He took a step forward without intending to, reaching out towards him. Lord Holmes withdrew sharply away from John’s outstretched hand, narrowing his eyes dangerously. Chastened, John lowered his gaze apologetically, speaking to the floor. “Please.” He requested again, the word twisting uncomfortably out of his mouth.

He looked up as he noticed movement, watching those dark claws wrap deftly around the metal handle in the dungeons’ door. His gaze swept desperately up to Lord Holmes’s face and watched as those piercing silver blue eyes flickered over him again before he wordlessly swung open the door and departed with one quick movement, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the stone walls around him.

 


	4. Chapter Four

It had taken John hours of reflection to realize that Lord Holmes had called him Doctor Watson. _Doctor_. John had made no mention of being a doctor. How had he known? And furthermore, exactly _what was_ Lord Sherlock Holmes? He was obviously human, or used to be, or was part human, or something or other. He had a man’s face, a man’s voice. Well, sometimes he had a man’s voice. Sometimes… it could barely be considered a voice at all.

And how was one supposed to explain his shape changing? His form was constantly shifting, grotesque features becoming more pronounced while his more human features would… But wait… that wasn’t entirely true, was it? If he was being honest with himself, John truthfully found none of Lord Holmes’s features to be grotesque or unflattering. He was most certainly different, but the strangeness of his physique intrigued John, rather than repelled him. The urge to study him, to examine him was nearly overwhelming. Now that the initial fear had faded, all that was left was… morbid fascination.  

They had spoken enough for John to come to the conclusion that Lord Holmes, while clearly inhuman, had the ability for civilized conversation. Even though his temperament was still questionable, he was not the monster that John had originally thought. He was intelligent. And appeared to be extremely wary of John’s intentions.

Considering their situation from Lord Holmes’s point of view, John found that he could understand his caution. If people knew who, or what, lived in this castle, he couldn’t imagine they wouldn’t storm the very gates and burn the entire structure to the ground. Lord Holmes had no way of knowing John’s true intentions.

But what were his intentions? Was the Lord really dangerous? _Should_ John escape at the first available opportunity and run for the nearest town, screaming at the top of his lungs? No, most certainly not. Their first meeting had been nothing but the outcome of fear and misconstrued intentions. If John had turned to find an intruder in his home, he certainly would have reacted violently as well. He couldn’t fault the Lord for that.

His other option was to stay, to let the events play out and witness for himself the exact nature of Lord Holmes. John immediately found this option to be the more agreeable one. He _wanted_ to remain. He _wanted_ to learn about the Lord and how he had come to be the creature that he was. He wanted…

He wanted his bloody neck to stop throbbing so painfully! Wincing, he brought a hand up to the tender flesh. The infection was setting in now. He would need to discuss medical supplies immediately with the Lord upon his return. Assuming he would return. John found himself believing he would. He had said he would, after all.  

More calm and collected than he had been since before his meeting with Mike an uncounted amount of days ago, John felt that he had made a rational decision. The Lord was a mystery, the likes of which he had never encountered before. John had always had a secret love for mysteries, and he knew he would stay to unravel his latest interest. He would have to gently urge the Lord to trust him. It would probably prove to be quite the challenge. John doubted the Lord had many, if any, confidants. He was surely lonely.

Just as John was lonely. Perhaps they could even make a tentative move towards friendly acquaintances and keep up regular correspondence, once John left. He sighed, trying to keep himself from becoming overly hopeful. It might come to be that the Lord Holmes was a horrible, unsocial, uncaring beast of a man. It would all remain to be seen.

Groaning, John rose from his sitting position, deciding to take a turn about the room to stretch his neglected legs. He began to pace, to wonder what time it was and when the Lord would return. He was getting damn tired of the dungeon.

He was just getting ready to lower himself back onto the floor as he heard a noise outside the massive wooden door. The rhythm of his heartbeat picked up immediately in nervous anticipation as he heard a bolt slide out of it’s well oiled lock. The door swung inward slowly, and John could only make out the outline of the Lord Holmes, as the firelight of the lamps where to his back. His long form was still as flashing eyes regarded him, John found himself holding his breath.

Instead of speaking, the Lord took a step back, holding his arm out in a gesture for John to step forward and out of the room. With an incredible sense of relief, John stepped cautiously forward, his eyes darting from the silent figure to the hallway beyond.

He tried to steal furtive glances of his host, but he seemed adept at using every shadow to his advantage. The only part of his form that John could see clearly were his flashing silver eyes, narrowed in sharp observation as John walked out of the dungeon room and into the dimly lit hall. John took a hesitant lead, walking down the hallway in the direction that the Lord had gestured, his footsteps echoing loudly in the narrow space. The Lord made no noise behind him as he followed.

They walked for an unknown length of time, up staircases and down more hallways, each room growing brighter and more alive as they moved through the immense castle. John paused at every turn, allowing the Lord Holmes to direct him as he wished. They were completely silent. John longed to speak, but feared to push his luck when events were going so well.

Finally, after traveling what seemed to be nearly the entire length of the estate, John found himself in a familiar room. The long windows stretched high up towards the ceiling, overlooking the gardens below. John received the first glimpse of sky he had seen in days. It was dark once again, but early morning judging by the beginnings of an orange glow on the horizon.

The light was barely enough to brighten the large room, but John turned before making the conscious decision to do so, eagerly looking towards his host in an attempt to see him more clearly. At first, he thought the Lord Holmes had abandoned him on the landing, but upon closer inspection he was to be found lingering by the staircase on the far side of the room, as far from the windows as he could manage.

He was yards away, and John gaped, wondering how in the blazes he had managed to retreat so far so quickly, and without making the slightest sound. Those silver eyes were narrowed dangerously, long black claws were draped over the banister, glinting in the low light. It seemed to John that the Lord purposefully kept to the shadows so that John could not look upon him. He knew not why, as he had already seen him hours ago.

The confusion must have shown on John’s face, because the Lord’s low voice sounded, answering his unspoken question.

“I am not used to having others gaze upon me, Doctor Watson. It causes me discomfort. Surely you are intelligent enough to understand my reasons without me having to explain.” His low voice, with a subtle undercurrent tone of mocking, set a chill over his skin. John opened his mouth in surprise, but didn’t speak. Instead, he stepped slowly closer to the Lord. He could hear that strange rustling sound again.

It appeared that the Lord was self conscious, or ashamed of his appearance, quite possibly both. John found this very telling, likely that he had not always been this way, but had been changed into whatever he was at some point in his life. It was clearly not a change he was happy with.

Did this mean that he was human, once? As John moved closer, he was able to see the Lord's face. His eyes were narrowed, his once again human mouth was drawn in a tight line. The skin over his face was pale, and there were lines around his eyes. Lines formed from anger and sorrow, not smiles and laughter. What had his life been, for him to be jaded so?

And even as John studied him, his face changed again. The thin line of his lips drew back, showing those sharp, inhuman teeth. The dark, hard scales around his jaw grew more pronounced, seemed to grow up along each side of his face and down his neck. The spines over his head and shoulders bristled, raising up like a cat’s hairs when they hissed and clawed. His hand tightened over the banister, claws scraping  over the polished wood.

He seemed angry with John, and it took John a moment of nervous gaping to realize why. Of course. He had just explained that he was uncomfortable with John’s scrutiny, and here John was ogling him like a man overcome. John immediately looked away, staring at the floor between them as he rushed to apologize.

“I am terribly sorry. I… I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” He amended, not daring to look up again. The strange rustling noise slithered along his skin softly, taunting him as he waited for the Lord’s response.

“You are not to enter the West Wing of the estate. You are not to go outside. A room has been prepared for you at the top of the stairs, third door on your right.” John jerked his head up at the rough words, unsure of whether he wanted to complain about the limitations to his freedom or thank the Lord for allowing him nearly complete free roam of the enormous castle. Upon catching sight of his face, John gasped, taking in the elongated jaw and scales over his nose and cheeks. He looked like some sort of beast… almost like… a dragon.

When the Lord spoke again, his voice was a deep, grating growl.

“I will come fetch you again when you have had ample time to recuperate and we will discuss your stay. Do not try to leave. If you do…” John waited, eyes wide as the Lord considered him. “I will kill you.” Without giving John time to respond, he turned sharply and disappeared behind the staircase, into a door hidden in shadow.

John stood rooted to the spot, unable to believe his situation. He had been prepared to stay, to obey the demands of the Lord Holmes if nothing more than to assure him of his safety and his continued residence uninterrupted. He thought he had made his agreeable intentions clear.

Now he was angry from being threatened and treated like a prisoner. He was offended that the Lord would think him so cowardly as to try to escape after he had said that he would not. He had been pursued and attacked and wounded severely, and even after his abysmal treatment, he had been prepared to be civil with the _beast_ who held him against his will.

And now to be threatened in such a way! John huffed angrily, setting his shoulders in a rigid line as he marched stiffly up the stairs. He was barely paying attention to his feet as he marched, fuming silently as he came to the door that had been prepared for him. He opened it without thinking, stepping into the room and slamming it shut with as much force as he could muster.

The noise was loud and echoed deeply throughout the stone, giving John a start and cause to take a deep breath, clearing the cloud of anger from his mind. He paused, closing his eyes as he tried to calm himself, hand still on the door. When he finally turned to view the room, he gasped.

It was even larger and grander than the first one he had woken in. He could have fit his entire cabin inside of it, twice. A massive fireplace sat as a centerpiece in the opposite wall, a fire roaring warmly in it’s heart. An enormous four poster bed was set against the wall to his right, thick furs and intricately woven quilts draped over it’s surface. A sitting area was set up to his left, with a knotted oak table and two high backed chairs placed on each side, their dark leather glowing in the firelight.

But it wasn’t the furniture or the cleanliness or the warmth of the room that caught John’s attention and held it so effortlessly. A large copper tub had been placed in the middle of the floor, full of water so hot that a steady stream of steam rose from it’s surface. A small table sat next to it, on which was placed ample medical supplies and wrappings. He walked over, stunned to find everything he needed and more. Even a hand mirror had been left, along with the familiar silver tray that had been placed on the floor for him in the dungeon. A plate of boiled eggs, bread and fresh berries waited for him, along with the usual glass pitcher of water and porcelain tea pot and matching cup.

John could only stand and gape at the table, the dying stirrings of anger evaporating completely. Had the Lord Holmes done this? John picked up the mirror with unsteady fingers, his own wide eyed reflection stared back at him. John had been so preoccupied with his host that he hadn’t even thought to request the supplies for his wounds. But here they were. John swallowed thickly. How… unusual.

He angled the mirror downward, inspecting the bite wound on his neck. It was red and angry, and sensitive to the touch. The skin had started to heal together in the wrong places, John grimaced as he realized he would have to cut through the healed skin and reopen the wound, scrub it clean, then stitch it back together.

Sighing, he set the mirror back on the table and dipped a finger tentatively into the water in the tub. It was hot, but not so hot that it would burn him. Carefully, he started removing his clothes and dropping them into a pile on the floor. When he was stark naked, He lifted himself into the tub and groaned as the hot water pricked at his skin. The tub was long enough for him to stretch out completely, resting his feet against the opposite edge as leaned back leisurely. The water came up to his armpits, soaking into his battered body and soothing him immensely.

He stayed motionless for a long time, enjoying the warmth and comfort of a hot bath. Calm once more, his attention wandered back to his enigmatic host. What was he doing now? Working in that strange chemists lab again? He wondered if he could find it, if he took to looking. Was he even allowed, or was that the West Wing that had been forbidden to him?

What had be been working on anyway? There had been so much equipment, had he been an educated man before his… transformation? Perhaps there had been an accident in his lab, and that was the reason he was so altered. The image of the Lord’s strangely scaled skin crept across his thoughts. How intriguing his form was to John, the idea of thoroughly inspecting his being was titillating. John wanted to see those strange bony spines on his head, to see how they moved with each emotion and expression, to touch them and see if they felt as smooth as they looked.

And those hands, those claws! John winced at the memory of them puncturing his torso. Terrifying as they were, John longed to inspect them. To feel the bones underneath the skin, to examine the joints as they flexed underneath his touch.

And his feet were obviously altered also, if the shape of his boots were to be any indication. Were they clawed and scaled as well? And what about the rest of the Lord’s body? The only part of him that seemed occupied by human skin was his face, neck and upper forearms. What of the rest of him? How interesting the Lord’s anatomy must be!

John continued to wonder about the strangeness of the Lord’s obscure body until the water started to cool. Not wanting to catch a chill, he scrubbed at his skin to remove all of the dirt and grime before gently washing his neck. Once he finished, he climbed out of the tub and grabbed his clothes from the floor, dropping them into the murky water and scrubbing them with his hands. After he was satisfied that they were, if not entirely clean then at least not completely filthy, he hung them over the fireplace to dry.

He then walked nude across the room to the leather armchairs and took hold of one, dragging it across the room and to the table near the fire. Sifting through the supplies on the table, he found the small silver knife he would need to reopen his wounds, along with a thick antiseptic cream in a glass jar. Propping the mirror up against the jar so that he could see his wound, John took a deep breath, wishing he had a large bottle of whiskey, before he he got to work.

It took nearly an hour of shouting and cursing to cut open the inflamed flesh, another half hour of crying and scrubbing the raw, bleeding skin, and another hour of sharp breaths and vulgar insults to his host, his own shaking hands, the lack of proper drugs, and God above before he finished sewing himself back together, weak and covered in a sheen of sweat. He applied a generous amount of antiseptic before finally wrapping a bandage around his entire neck to guard from infection. His whole body ached with renewed fervor, as if he had suffered the entire ordeal all over again.

His stomach rolled from the pain, and he was unable to bear the thought of eating. Shaking and exhausted, and wishing once again for a large bottle of whiskey, John fell into the bed still naked, sprawled unashamedly across it as his eyes fluttered shut. Though he was sure it was sometime late morning, he gave in to his exhaustion, his knotted muscles finally relaxing as he fell under, oblivious of the world around him.

 


	5. Chapter Five

A chill had thoroughly settled over the room when John woke, his naked body was covered with gooseflesh as he rose from the massive bed. The fire was no longer burning, a few glowing coals were the only source of heat. He was pleased to find that his clothes were dry, however, if a little stiff. A bit of wear would certainly loosen them up though. He dressed quickly in his trousers and socks, relieved to feel the warmth that lingered in the threads from hanging over the fire.

His neck and shoulder were stiff and tender as he sat in the chair by the table and pulled on his boots. After lacing them up, he slowly pulled the bandage away from his skin and inspected the wound in the small hand mirror. It was red and angry, but not quite as much as before. Pleased with it’s progress, however slight, he reapplied the antiseptic cream and put on a fresh bandage. Once it was secure, he pulled his shirt over his head, careful not to disturb the wrappings around his neck.

He had no idea of the time, as his room had no windows, but he had been given nearly free reign of the castle so he could easily figure it out for himself. The idea of exploring such a massive estate filled him with a childish glee and anticipation, and a minuscule hope that he may run into his antisocial host. He determinedly filed this wish away for further inspection at a later time. He wasn’t so sure that the desire to see the Lord Holmes was one that he should indulge in. The man was a monster, and obviously dangerous. He had injured John, and was keeping him prisoner for God’s sake!

But was he being kept prisoner? He was allowed to roam the castle now, after all. He simply had a few restrictions. Did that count as being held against his will? Was his will to leave? No. No it was not. So to be clear, since he had no intentions of trying to leave, he was not being held against his will and therefore was not a prisoner. Merely a… guest.

With this distinction, John felt a bit better about his situation. He tried not to think about how he had come to this conclusion and how it forced the Lord more firmly into the role of host and possible friend, rather than captor and enemy. That was not the only reason, of course not.

John snapped straight and to attention when he realized he had been standing in front of the door, motionless while he worked this out in his head. With quick and sure movements that had been instilled into him by his service, John put the matter from his mind and left the room, letting the door fall shut behind him.

He wandered down the hall and down the massive staircase into the large foyer in which he had parted with the Lord Holmes previously. The high windows were bright with late evening sunshine, basking the room with a rare warm orange glow as he stepped across the sun drenched floor. He couldn’t help but be amazed once again at the view that went on for miles, the sharply manicured grounds of the estate, the high stone walls that surrounded it, and the forest beyond that stretched passed the horizon. The trees in the distance were brown and dead, fall had officially settled while he had been locked away.

John pressed his fingers to the glass to find it cold, chilled by the air outside. He wondered again how long he had been shut away, and whether or not he was missed by his meager friends at the pub. Would Harry miss him? Had Mike noticed he was gone? Surely he had? Would he be looking, or would he have assumed that John had wandered off on his own? He found that he didn’t know, and this knowledge unsettled him.

His breath fogged over the glass as he stood close, peering out into the world, unseeing. What did he expect? For them to form a search party and scour the woods? Did he even want them to? No, he did not. So why did the idea that they might not, bother him so?

Perhaps he just wanted someone to miss him.

John tried to shake off the depressing unease that the direction his thoughts had taken had draped over him like a thick blanket. He had no use for such emotions, and they would not do him any good. There was no point in dwelling on things that he could not change. He simply wanted to explore the direction his life had taken, and learn to take it in stride. He had other, more important things to dedicate his attention to.

Like the mystery of the Lord Holmes, who was quite obviously nowhere to be found. As was anyone else for that matter. John had still yet to come across anyone else in the castle, not even his secret ally. Someone had brought him the food, and he doubted it had been his host. So who? And where were they hiding now?

With his new mission in mind, John stepped away from the window and settled into his new task; to find someone, anyone, to question about the castle. He chose to stay away from the door that the Lord had disappeared behind, unsure as to whether that was one of the places that he was forbidden, and chose to wander up the other staircase instead.

The castle really was lovely. The stone floors and walls were polished and smooth, the rugs were free of dirt and stain, the oil lamps were full and bright. There were no cobwebs hanging from the rafters, there were no neglected rooms full of strange stored items. Each door concealed an elegantly furnished guest room or office or study, each with books that John took time to explore. He became quite distracted in this, and didn’t realize that hours had passed while he sat in a warm leather chair by a fire reading a tome on _Nature's Natural Herbs and Cures._

By the time John finally found his way back to his room, it was well into the night and he had still not found one sign of any other live person in the estate. But upon entering his quarters, he found the fire rekindled and fresh medical supplies provided, along with a tray of steaming beef stew that set him salivating. He sat in the leather chair by the fire and ate, musing quietly.

His day had been fruitless in his original intent, but it had not been uneventful. He had familiarized himself with his surroundings, an old habit that gave him comfort and put his mind at ease. After his warm supper he would sleep, and set out again tomorrow morning. There was no rush after all, as he seemed to be resigned to remain in the castle for the foreseeable future.

With this thought in mind, and a full stomach to lull him to sleep, John spent a brief few minutes to clean and change the dressings on his wound before collapsing into bed, letting his exhaustion overcome him.

* * *

The next few days passed this way. John woke sometime early morning, to find an eager fire in the hearth and fresh food upon the table, with supplies to redress his wound as needed. A hot bath was prepared for him each night, along with supper and even fine, fresh clothes that were certainly more well made and more expensive than anything John had ever owned. But through all of this coddling and fantastic service, he never once saw any of the people that tended to him. He found this increasingly strange and frustrating, as he longed for human contact and conversation.

The bite wound on his neck healed slowly, the skin knitted together properly this time, and John knew that because of the delayed care he would have an ample amount of scarring. The idea didn’t really bother him, as long as he kept the taut skin stretched and pliable, it would cause him no difficulty. Regularly stretching his neck to each side would alleviate that issue. As far as the visual aspect, he would only add this scar to the many that he had accumulated over his service in the army. It made no difference to him, as he had no one to impress with his body anyway.

The Lord Holmes was no where to be found, and John found himself to be disappointed by this fact. He increased the range of his exploration each day, hoping to find some sign of his host, only to be further dispirited as each day his search was in vain. Certainly the Lord was still in the castle, John doubted he would go out in public as it was too much of a risk that he might be seen. He must be there somewhere, hidden in the depths that John had yet to see.

It was on the fourth morning that John woke, unusually cold though the fire was crackling brightly, that he was specifically determined to locate his evasive target. He dressed in the fine brown leather trousers and his own worn boots, with the soft green linen shirt that had been provided for him. He rolled the sleeves up to his forearms as he preferred them, and left the strings at his throat untied so as not to suffocate the now bare wound on his neck. A tidy breakfast of tea, biscuits, boiled eggs, cheese, and fruit had been placed upon the table for him, and he ate graciously.

Upon entering the foyer that began his journey every day, one look out of the windows explained why the air had such a chill. A soft drifting of snow had begun, not quite heavy enough to stick to the ground but visible enough to give the air outside a misty frost. The sky was bright, but overcast, with thick clouds that spoke of rain and snow for days to come. John wrapped his arms around his chest to guard himself from the cold, though it was still warm enough in the castle.

With one last lingering look at the sky beyond the glass, John turned and began his journey through the castle. He walked for hours, paying less attention to the contents of each room as he had previously, as he had other thoughts on his mind, rather than the books and other wonders hidden by various doors. Eventually he found himself on what must have been the top floor, which was at least four floors above the room where he slept. The air was drafty and cold, and John soon realized why as he came to a narrow archway that led to a long crosswalk between two towers. The walkway was stone and wood, with wooden and metal roof, and stone pillars leading from the path to the roof, arching every so feet into the next one. The structure was beautiful, and the view through the arches was breathtaking.

It was windy and cold, flurries of snow whipped his too thin shirt around his body as he did his best to ignore the cold, walking with wide eyes down the stone path formed so high above the ground. Judging from the amount of windows that John could see, the castle was at least six stories from ground to where he was standing. The towers, which were where John had just come from, rose higher and into the parapets. John could see most of the estate from where he stood, and it was bigger than any other single structure he had ever seen with his own eyes. It was a place built for kings, not simple folk such as himself. But then, he supposed, the Lord Holmes didn’t seem to be a simple man.

He wasn’t able to stomach the cold air for long, and was forced to abandon the site and retreat into the warmth of the castle tower, down the steps and into less drafty areas. Having seen the higher floors, John set about exploring the lower rooms, and spent quite a while walking down staircases and the like, before he came to a cavernous room that was more grand and elegant than any he had seen so far.

It was a formal dining hall, with crystal chandeliers housing brightly lit candles and long thick oak tables and benches, more stone floors and tapestries wider than ten men put together handing on the walls. John could only gape at its magnificence. He was so taken that he didn’t notice that he was being watched from the moment he entered the room.

A subtle movement from yards away on his right caught his attention, and he snapped into a stiff posture, ready for battle before he assessed the threat. He relaxed upon seeing his audience, but only tensed right away again, though for an entirely different reason.

The Lord Holmes was standing calmly, observing him with those piercing silver blue eyes in a way that made John feel positively naked under his scrutiny. He remained still and silent, and they merely watched each other for a moment, he seemed to be waiting for John to speak. Taking a breath, John took a slow step towards him, watching his form and gauging his reaction. The Lord made no move to retreat, watching John’s cautious advancement instead. Taking this as permission, John continued the short stride to his host.

He was dressed again in the black leather trousers and strange boots, but with a sheer white shirt made of a fabric so thin that John could see the discolored skin beneath. He swallowed, trying not to let his eyes linger curiously on the Lord’s torso and instead rested on his blank face. He showed no emotion, choosing to hide behind that mask that John felt to be his version of protection. John had learned to school his features when in dangerous situations as well, the army trained all of their officers to do this in case of capture and interrogation. It was an ability that had served him well in the past. It seemed to be serving the Lord Holmes well now, as John was oblivious to his thoughts.

“Good evening my Lord.” John offered, making an attempt at polite conversation. He decided this to be the safest way for him to proceed, taking into consideration of the Lord’s volatile temperament. It seemed that he had chosen well, as the Lord raised an eyebrow in what almost seemed to be confused interest.

“Good evening Doctor Watson.” He replied, hesitating before he spoke again. “Have you found your room to your liking?” John found the formal question to sound awkward and forced, as though the Lord was uncomfortable asking it.

“Yes, of course. It’s quite lovely, thank you. The castle is amazing. I’ve explored a bit, but I haven’t covered much ground I’m afraid. It seems easy to get lost.” John answered, making extra effort to sound at ease. He didn’t want the Lord to feel stressed and be tempted to leave.  

“I’m pleased that you find it satisfactory.” He replied stiffly, giving a quick nod. John noticed that the spines along his skull and the back of his neck were nearly flat against the back of his head, making him look almost… timid. He opened his mouth again and paused, eyes flickering over John’s face and neck before he answered. “How is your wound?”

John started at the unexpected question, his hand reaching up to brush over his neck automatically.

“It’s fine, much better, thank you. The medical supplies you provided made all the difference.” He said sincerely. The Lord nodded, looking away and around the room absently.

“Are you hungry?” He inquired, the simple question sounding deceptively light. John then noticed the extravagant dinner than had been set up at the end of one of the long tables only a few yards away. Dinner for two. How had he known that John would be here?

John gaped at the small feast, looking back to his host in amazement and nodded woodenly. The Lord gestured for him to sit, and John felt improper, sitting down before the Lord had taken his seat. He sat at the right of the table, not daring to sit at the head, and watched with wide eyes as the Lord Holmes took his seat.

John had never seen him so close before, and never in such bright light. The black spines across his head seemed to be made of smooth, shiny marble-like black bone. They almost curled around his head, giving the illusion of hair if one wasn’t paying attention. The dark red scales over his jaw were small, none bigger than the nail on John’s little finger, and smooth like gemstones. John longed to run his fingers over them and see if they were as hard as they looked.

From only a seat away, John could see that the scales ran over the back of the Lord’s neck and over his shoulders, probably down his back as well. His innocent inspection was cut short as he saw the Lord shift minutely, such a small movement that if he had not been paying such close attention then he would not have noticed.

John averted his gaze quickly, looking down to his empty plate before he could scare off his companion.

“I wanted to ask, I haven’t seen anyone else in the estate. Where are your servants? I see the evidence of their attentions but I haven’t seen anyone here. With the exception of you, of course.” John asked, picking up his fork and serving himself some roasted potatoes.

“The mark of a good servant is to do the job while being seen as little as possible, if at all.” The Lord replied before taking a meager sip of his wine. John studied him for only a moment before he slipped a small bite into his mouth. He sensed that the Lord didn’t want to speak on the subject of his staff, and as maddeningly curious as John was, he would not force the issue.

They ate in silence for a few moments and John noticed that the Lord didn’t eat much at all. He barely picked at his food, tearing it to small pieces with his clawed fingers with unexpected precision. It seemed that he had very fine motor control, and made what should have been a clumsy experience to be something deft and effortless. John found himself wondering how much practice he had acquired over the time he had had this shape.

In all, the food was fantastic and John would have relished in the opportunity to speak to his host and become more familiar with him, had he not been so unsure as to what he could and could not ask him. He was afraid to say the wrong thing and set the man off, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to remain silent and keep his eyes from straying towards those sure fingers, that pensive face.

And his voice, his voice was something to behold! John had never heard a voice such as his, and was curious if it was because of his form that caused his voice to sound so rich and deep. Surely no mortal man had a voice so… John jolted at the thought, surprised at himself. So… sensuous.

He gave himself a firm mental shake. He would file that away for later thought.

When he was nearly finished, he had almost made up his mind to speak. He wasn’t quite sure what he would say, but he was determined to break the ice that had formed between them somehow. He set down his fork and wiped his mouth thoroughly before looking up, only to find that the Lord was already staring at him thoughtfully. He opened his mouth and paused, suddenly unsure.

“Don’t stop on my account. I’ve been watching the resolve form on your face for the last ten minutes. You only now just made up your mind. Go on.” The Lord ordered, in that voice that nearly made John shudder. Nearly.

“I was just… well. I wanted to-“ John began, floundering. But the Lord unexpectedly cut him off.

“Why do you look at me like that?” He asked, his eyes narrowing as he studied John’s face intently. John paused, mouth open in confusion.

“Like what?” He managed.

“Like… That. There is no… revulsion on your face. There is no fear. I don’t understand it.” Sherlock answered, his eyes flickering back and forth between John’s.

And suddenly, John understood. This man, because he was a man, found himself to be a hideous and disfigured creature, and had determined that to look upon him was to look upon something vile and frightful. John felt that, that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

He found that his new purpose in life was to show the Lord Holmes that he was not a monster. He was not someone to be shunned or hated. And not because John had nothing better to do with the rest of his existence, though that was certainly the case, but because he found the Lord to be fascinating and it was plain to see that there was certainly more to him than the strange body in which he found himself.

Perhaps it was a hasty decision. Perhaps he should have given it more than a seconds thought. Perhaps he should have stayed longer at the pub that last night, and let Mike talk him into moving into the city and getting a job for the city guard. Perhaps he should have never gone on the mission that had gotten him shot. Perhaps he should have never joined the army. Perhaps he should stop overthinking and accept where his life had taken him, and follow his gut for once.

And his gut told him to stay and explore the inner workings of the strange being in front of him, staring at him expectantly.

“Because I don’t see you that way.” John answered simply, at peace with his answer. The Lord Holmes did not seem to find peace with it. On the contrary, it seemed to incite him more.

“I don’t understand. I am a monster, Doctor Watson. A beast. You should be terrified. And yet you sit here having dinner as though this is entirely normal. Is your brain addled?” The Lord demanded, his clawed hands tightening into fists.

“John.” He answered, staring calming into the Lord’s face.

“Excuse me?” The Lord answered, leaning back in his chair, baffled.

“My name is John. I’d prefer that to ‘Doctor Watson’, if you don’t mind.” He returned simply, watching the Lord’s face.

“John.” The Lord responded, and John unintentionally let his eyes flutter shut for a brief moment. _That voice._ He pulled a deep breath in through his nose to calm himself and nodded.

“Yes. Lord Holmes, to be frank, I find you intriguing. I don’t find your form to be grotesque or frightening. I would like the opportunity to speak to you on the matter, to know the story behind it if you are willing to share.” John dared, watching the Lord closely, taking in his wide eyes, his frozen face. Even the ever shifting spines on his head were still. Before John was able to continue, the Lord stood abruptly, cutting off all words.

“I shall think on what you have said. I trust you can find your way back to your room.” He said stonily and John feared he had gone too far, but then he continued. “Have a good night… John.” The Lord all but fled the room and John was left staring after him.

That was the first night he heard the violin.

 


	6. Chapter Six

The music, so hauntingly beautiful, kept John up most of the night. But this did not displease him. On the contrary, he was… captivated. Could the Lord Holmes be responsible for such a melodious sound? Surely it had to be him, for who else? John couldn't imagine how he could play, with the claws on his fingers, but he managed it somehow. More than managed. He was _brilliant._

John nearly wept at the sound, as it was the most beautiful music he had ever had the fortune to bless his ears. He longed to follow the sound, to witness its birth, but he dared not lest it stop. He couldn’t risk _that._ So he remained in his leather chair by the fire, letting the sound reverberate through him until long after midnight and he could keep his eyes open no longer. It was still playing when they drifted closed.

The castle was devastatingly silent when he woke the next morning. John washed and redressed quickly, forgoing his breakfast in his haste. He was determined to find the Lord, to demand, to question, to implore how such a heartbreaking sound could come from his person. The pain had been nearly palpable, and John could feel it’s lingering soreness in his heart.

The snow was falling with more force than it had been before, and it had stuck to the ground overnight, leaving a blanket of soft white over the grounds when John gazed out the windows. The shirt that had been provided for him was made of wool, thick and pliable and much more warm than the thin cotton ones he had previously been given. It hugged his torso, keeping the chilling air at bay while he stood next to the tall window, his fingers on the cold glass.  

He lingered for a moment, allowing his attention to wander while he stared absently at the picturesque scenery before him. Their dinner the previous night had baffled him, leaving him cautious yet eager for their next meeting. Lord Holmes was intriguing and mysterious, and most definitely dangerous, which quite frankly only served to make him even more interesting. John closed his eyes, letting the memory of Lord Holmes’s narrowed eyes, his flexing claws run rampant through his thoughts. He sighed, letting his eyes flutter open with the realization that he was impatient and anxious in his desire to see the Lord again. _Soon._

What was this want? It had been purposefully and carefully set to the side, in the back of John’s mind to be dissected later when he was alone and his thoughts would not betray themselves on his face. He was most certainly alone now, in the silent cavernous room, with only his confusing feelings to keep him company. Though perhaps keeping him company wasn’t exactly what said thoughts did.

John was overcome with uncertainty, his thoughts and feelings in disarray as he attempted to sort through them with little luck. He was intrigued by the Lord, yes. He was eager to explore his past, his personality, and the depth of his disfigurement. But this was interest from a Doctor’s standpoint, purely medical curiosity, wasn’t it? At first he would have stood firmly by this view, but now… now he wasn’t so sure.

John found himself, though still quite riveted by the Lord’s strange form, but also keen to decipher his expressions and the emotions behind them. He found himself affected in peculiar ways, as though his own emotions were compromised. Why did he long to examine the Lord’s face, to hear _his voice_ speaking John’s own name? He ached for the Lord’s presence, to let his eyes linger upon those scales, the fleshy hollow of his throat. This longing, this desire was… frightening.

John was unaccustomed to such impulses. He had of course had his dalliances with the opposite sex, but never with another man and of course never one such as Lord Holmes. He had thought of it on occasion, he had been in the army after all, where such relations were common if not celebrated. But never had he ever had the urge himself.

He was not quite sure that his urges were entirely sexual in nature, but they certainly seemed to be evolving into such. He pulled his hand away from the glass, staring at his own wide eyed reflection with a measure of shock.

Did he desire the Lord Holmes? No, certainly not. He couldn’t. Not only was he inhumanly shaped, and a Lord and as such entirely out of John’s reach, but a complete stranger and volatile, temperamental, and dangerous. He could very well injure or even fatally wound John in a fit of rage, as he had nearly done!

The healing wound at the juncture of his neck and shoulder ached with the thought, and John brought a hand to the swollen skin. No, whatever these emerging feelings were, John would have nothing to do with them. He would smother them, bury them deep in his consciousness and refuse to allow them access to his intentions towards the Lord. He would continue with his original plan to befriend the Lord and learn his story, he could allow himself that much. He was still quite the fascinating creature.

A square shouldered, determined reflection stared back at him in the glass as he set his mind and firmly put his fickle attraction away. He turned on his heel and set off to seek out the Lord, in hopes of broadening their familiarity by engaging him in conversation.

He meandered for a few hours, enjoying the maze of beautiful structure and arches in the castle, the massive paintings and carved stone and marble statues that gave the place life and intricacy. The halls were warm and flickered with cheery fire light, but still and silent in their emptiness. Lonely.

John began to lose track of where he had wandered, he was unsure of which direction or hall or staircase would take him back to his room. A shiver of gooseflesh had come over his skin before he realized that the fires had not been lit in the part of the castle that he had found himself in. The hall was dark and cool, with a slight draft that came from somewhere, unbeknownst to John. He wrapped his arms around himself as he walked, trying to find his way back.

He came to a stop when he came across a marble bust on the floor, it’s stone face broken into multiple white shards, littering the woven red rug that took up the hallway. It seemed so out of place among the clean perfection of the rest of the castle that John frowned, stepping closer and leaning down to finger the pieces. He glanced up to see the door in front of him ajar, also strange as every other door he had come across had been firmly closed. A breath of cold air caressed his face, coming from the sliver of open space the door created.

With caution, John kept his knees bent in a slight crouch, ready for fight or flight, as he pushed the door gently inwards with the tips of his fingers. The draft picked up as the space between the door and frame widened, giving John a startling view of the room beyond.

The chambers were massive, with arched ceilings so high that five men standing on each others shoulders could not have reached them. The far wall was mostly glass, with floor to ceiling windows that would have let ample amounts of natural light, had they not been mostly covered with thick drapes. It was a wide room, at least twenty yards across, with shiny floors made of swirling white and grey marble.

And it was an utter wreck.

The thick red velvet drapes over the windows had been torn to shreds, with ripped pieces of fabric littering the floor in front of the windows like rebellious splashes of blood. There had been furniture once, elegantly carved oaken pieces that must have been tables and chairs, a bed frame, and bookshelves. They were in splintered pieces now, thrown haphazardly across the floors, along with other ripped fabrics, papers that fluttered weakly in the draft, and shattered pieces of glass and china, dirty with age.

One of the tall windows was in fact a glass door, opening to a terrace beyond. John could see the black iron railings out of the open door, the thick curtain swaying softly around the door in the breeze. Flickers of snow were falling in through the open door, the source for the cold draft that had drawn John’s attention.

The room was dark, due to a combination of the mostly covered windows and overcast sky beyond. The open door was the main source of light, and without thinking, John took a step forward with intents to close it. His foot landed upon a shard of glass, breaking quickly and loudly under his weight. The noise echoed, breaking through the silence in the room rudely, causing John to flinch guiltily. He did not have long to contemplate who might have heard it.

A deep, guttural growl rose from the shadows on the other side of the room, raising the hairs on John’s arms and neck and setting his heart thudding with quick bursts. He swung to face the sound, tense and with raised hands as though to defend himself. The growl was amplified suddenly, growing in intensity and echoing around the cavernous room. John could _feel_ the sound, permeating his skin as it kicked up his adrenaline in his body, a result of his fear.

He _knew_ that growl.

The rustling sound began, growing louder and louder, quickly accompanied by the sounds of something cracking and breaking, along with something wet, like dead, soggy flesh being drug across a stone floor. John’s breath hitched, his heart pounding so hard that it hurt, as he strained his eyes towards the darkness with no avail. His jaw clenched as he not so much saw, as _sensed_ the movement in the shadows.

Then the eyes, silver eyes flashing at him from the darkness, but too large, too high in the air to be the eyes he was so accustomed to. The pupils contracted, lengthening until they were slim and long like a cat’s. The eyes narrowed and the growl intensified again, jarring his bones and swelling the fear in his stomach until it rose up in his chest, then his throat, cutting off his ability to breathe.

_Thud_. John gasped, his ears popped as the pressure in the air assaulted his senses. The air around the room was disturbed violently, causing papers and small pieces of fabric to flurry around. _Thud._ He finally took a step back, as though his feet had been covered in ice and he had only just broken free. Another step back, and three more followed quickly. _Thud._ He was scrambling backwards, but he was going in the wrong direction, towards the windows instead of the door he had come through. He didn’t care. He would go any direction. Anywhere, to escape. _Thud._

The rustling, so loud now that it seemed to be crawling all over his skin, along with the growling that had his heart pounding so hard that he feared he might have a heart attack. Movement from the shadows, more sliding and cracking and breaking, wet fleshy noises that made his hands shake violently, and then the _words_. It _spoke._

_“Why are you here?”_ It asked, guttural words unrecognizable in his fear. He jumped when his feet hit something hard, a wooden leg that had been torn from something, lying upon the floor. John lost his footing and tripped, then took to scrambling back on his hands and feet. _Thud_. The disturbance in the air was so great, John felt his hair flutter around his head, his clothes twist around his body in an attempt to escape. He finally came to the windows, just to one side of the door, his back pressed against the cold glass.

_“This part of the castle is forbidden! Why are you here?!”_ The growling voice asked again. John gasped again, eyes flickering frantically over the moving shape in the darkness, unable to make out anything of it’s massive form except the fuming, narrowed silver eyes that flashed at him from ten feet above the ground. He gaped, trying to speak through over his thudding heart, his throat seizing up in betrayal.

“I-I didn’t mean-I’m sorry-“ He tried, unable to gather his thoughts in the face of such rage.

 _“Leave! LEAVE!”_  The last word was a vicious roar, and John’s body finally kicked into action.

He forced his feet under him and bolted to the closest exit, the door to the terrace. A violent crash exploded behind him, following by another roar and the sound of something being slid across the floor again. It took every force of his will not to pause and look back, but to rush to the railing and look down below. The metal was like ice under his hands but he didn’t feel it, he was focused now.

He was back in the army, in enemy territory and there were bombs exploding around him, with enemy forces threatening his life, and he was a soldier and he would _survive._

Without pause or hesitation, John planted both hands firmly on the icy raining and lunged over, dropping through the air like dead weight before landing heavily on the stone slated roof below. His body was light with adrenaline and exhilaration and his knees were bent to absorb the impact. The roof was uneven, he thrust a hand out to one side to steady his uneven stance and began to slide down the ice covered roof, his feet finding no purchase on its slick surface.

With his life in danger for the second time within the last few minutes, John let his focus sharpen onto the rapidly approaching edge, flattening his body so that his weight wouldn’t carry him over and throw him into oblivion. Bracing himself, he winced when his feet caught the ledge and he suddenly stopped, laying flat on the roof with only a stone ledge between him and an unknown amount of empty space between him and the ground below.

Another roar and a crash sounded above him and debris flew over his head. John pressed his face into his arm to protect his eyes and tried to look down, under his arm. His view was too obstructed, he couldn’t see how far he was from the ground. Heart hammering wildly, John risked a glance up as he heard the _thud._

A window from the room above was suddenly shattered, glass flying outward and over him with such force that John could only imagine what was going on in the room he had just fled from. His instinct, molded by years of military training, forced him into action once again. He needed to find cover.

He took a cautious step to the side, testing the precarious stone railing his feet were pressed against, and found it firm and unyielding. With one foot after the other, he began to work his way to the side, away from the roaring disaster above him. The sounds of rage and destruction continued as he stepped quickly to the side, but a metallic shrieking gave him pause and without thinking, he looked up.

What he saw froze the breath in his lungs.

A massive red dragon, as big as ten horses, had exploded out onto the balcony. It had gripped the black metal railing its front claws, twisting it into a deformed ball of wiry scribbles and ripped it away from the stone that it clung to. Silver eyes flashed quickly towards John’s still form, taking in his appearance on the roof. John couldn’t move, caught as he was in it’s gaze.

It’s scales gleamed black and blood red in the lingering daylight, muted from the overcast sky. The spines over it’s head were a soul sucking black, and so long and sharp that they could have impaled John’s chest and come out the opposite side of his body like a knife through butter. It’s long clawed fingers could have wrapped around him with ease, and it’s muzzle and teeth could have ripped him in half. And it was staring at him, tail whipping back and forth angrily, as it spread it’s massive wings, the color of blood. And then the wings beat once in the air, _thud._

__

The shock of it made him jerk and he lost his balance, and suddenly he was teetering in the air, balanced precariously between the safety of the roof and the empty space behind him. He flung his arms out, crying out unintentionally, and then he was falling backwards. The stone railing fell away from his feet and his body was suddenly weightless as he fell through the air. The breath was ripped from his lungs as the dragon disappeared from his view, with one last silver wide eyed look.

He had no time to contemplate the end of his life. He saw no flashbacks, no images of his past came to make its peace. He had no time for any thought whatsoever, except that he was falling, before he hit the ground.

His fall was muted, and not at all what he expected. His eyes had clenched shut for the impact, though he couldn’t remember deciding to close them. When they opened, everything was white. The brief thought that he was dead crossed his mind, before he realized what he was looking at. Snow. A generous amount of snow. And sky.

He had fallen into a mound of fresh snow, and it had softened his fall. Groaning, he sat up, staring incredulously around him, amazed at his luck. If he had fallen just a few feet in either direction, he would have landed on metal railing or solid ground. He nearly laughed aloud, but then he heard the roar above him. _Thud, thud, thud._

John once again scrambled to his feet, wiping flurries of snow from his eyes as he struggled out of the snow bank and onto solid ground. When his feet finally found purchase, he ran blindly, in any direction. His gaze flickered around in his haste, taking in his surroundings as he was trained to do.

He was outside the castle, in the gardens. The rows of carefully trimmed hedges and frozen rose bushes guided his path as he fled from the dragon. Surely it would catch him if he couldn’t find cover! He looked ahead wildly, towards the trees in the distance. If he could but make it to the trees, the beast wouldn’t be able to pursue him in flight. _Thud, thud, thud._

__

Sucking in a breath of stinging air, John altered his course, his muscles seizing with pain as he jumped over hedges and tangles of thorns. His trousers were cut and ripped, and certainly his skin as well, but he could not feel it. He felt the hard stone and earth under his feet, and the air biting into his lungs as he ran, the beating pressure of air coming ever closer. _Thud, thud, thud._

John could feel the beating wind against his back, he could hear the growl behind him, his heart was swelling like a target, becoming larger and larger and threatening to burst from his chest. The trees were close, so close, if only he could make it! His muscles were starting to tire, his legs were becoming heavy and his breath was coming in short bursts. The adrenaline rush was fading, his energy was failing him. He wasn’t going to make it.

No sooner did the thought cross his mind did he circle around the edge of one of the high stone walls and burst into the cover of the trees.

****  
  



	7. Chapter Seven

A deafening roar of frustration sounded behind him, followed by a furious gust of wind as the _thud, thud, thud,_ of wings beat just outside the line of trees. Dead leaves and flurries of snow were blown around him as he forced his leaden limbs to continue on. He stumbled in the thick undergrowth, his legs and arms catching on outstretched branches and roots as he fumbled. At least this time it wasn’t dark, and he could see.

John’s lungs were burning, his body slow and out of shape after his extensive injuries. Sharp pains in his side caused him to hold himself together with one arm as he steadied himself with the other. Exhaustion was beginning to overcome him, and he was nearly ready to stop when he suddenly burst through a gap in the trees.

He fell out onto a worn path, wide enough for a horse and carriage to travel easily. He couldn’t have gotten far from the castle, as he could still hear the dragon’s wings beating steadily in the distance. Searching for him.

Dropping to his hands and knees, he heaved for air, trying to calm his racing heart and cease the trembling of his overtaxed limbs. The dirt was dry and hard under his feet, splattered with ice here and there along the worn road. His breath fogged in front of his face as he huffed, his eyes slid shut as he fought the urge to fall forward and rest for just a moment…

He could still hear the dragon, but the _thud_ of it’s wings was slowly growing softer and farther away. He found himself smiling, then a hysterical giggle burst forth from his lips. He was shocked by the action, but his surprise didn’t cease the fit of laughter that suddenly bubbled up his throat. He laughed quietly to himself, leaning back on his knees to wrap his arms around his torso as it shook with the effort of his relief.

He was beginning to feel the cold, now that his body had slowed down and the effects of the adrenaline were no longer pumping so strongly through him. The soft gusts of air bit into his skin, and his face stung from wind burn. Tiny pinpricks of pain fluttered along his exposed skin, a warning to John’s knowledgeable mind. He knew the effects of cold and exposure, and the beginnings of hypothermia. The snow fell around him, sticking to his head and shoulders as he tried to come up with a plan of action.

He was currently in the middle of the woods without proper clothing or gear, he was exhausted and occupied many small injuries. A quick glance at the sky through the tops of the trees confirmed that the snow wouldn’t cease anytime soon, and might just pick up instead. He needed three things, and in a specific order; shelter, a warm, _warm_ not hot, bath, and a kit to treat his wounds, small though they were.

And perhaps a nice cup of tea.

The _thud, thud, thud_ could still be heard, the dragon couldn’t be far away and it still seemed to be searching. John desperately needed shelter, or at least to be out of plain sight. Were the beast to fly overhead now, it would certainly see him.

He braced one hand on his knee and made to stand, but froze when a movement to his right caught his attention. Her jerked his face around, eyes widening in surprise as he studied the large wolf standing six yards away, it’s gold eyes fixed on him. It’s grey fur blended in easily to the dreary winter surroundings, and standing on long legs it’s head was level with John’s as he sat back on his heels.

From what John knew of wolves, they usually kept to themselves but had been known to be man eaters when the time called for it. He also knew that where there was one wolf, there were usually more not far behind.

Cautiously and with exaggerated slowness, John stood, gaining some height and the illusion of power over the beast. It made no move to run away, only watched as he stood straight, keeping eye contact. John inhaled deeply, preparing his body yet again for fight or flight, and was about to shout at the animal in an attempt to scare it off, when it suddenly lifted it’s head and _howled._

The hair on John’s neck stood to attention and his skin prickled at the eerie sound. He took an involuntary step back, and the wolf quieted, returning it’s gaze to John. It remained motionless, watching him unblinkingly as John took another step back. He began to think that perhaps the mongrel would just let him go, and then he heard it.

Another howl in the distance. Then another.

He was being closed in on, he was being hunted. In a brief moment of hesitation, John knew he had a decision to make. He could run back, towards the castle and it’s shelter. And the dragon. Or.

He could stay here and be torn apart by wolves. Really not a hard decision, in all honesty. Right.

John bolted. The earth was hard and slippery with ice under his feet and he nearly lost his footing, once, twice. With eyes on the road, he kept running, a fresh burst of energy pumping through his veins. He jumped over patches of mud and ice, allowing his feet to make contact with gritty dirt and rocks instead. He fought the urge to look back, forcing himself to watch his footing.

A yip, then two more behind him gave him all incentive he needed to keep going. The soft and insistent sounds of paws padding on the earth kept him on the edge, many paws, more than one wolf. The others had joined in. John could see the break in the tree’s ahead, and he strained his ears for the sound of wings, but heard nothing over the animals chasing him. And the sudden growls.

A sharp tug on the back of his trouser leg sent him sprawling on the cold, wet ground just before the road turned into a cobblestone path. John could see the castle in front of him, stretched up so high, it’s dark windows beckoning. The wolves had other plans.

John turned sharply, his back to the ground as he lifted himself up to an almost sitting position. There were four of them, all a dirty grey with mud splashed paws and trembling muzzles. John felt a whine escape his throat unbidden, couldn’t he just catch a break? First he was captured and kept hostage by a mad monster and then nearly killed by a dragon and now… oh… _oh._

__

The flashing eyes, the scales, the spines, the growling, grating voice… he couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized it sooner! John blinked back into the present, snapping his slack jaw together as one of the wolves took a step towards him. Now wasn’t exactly the best time to be coming to such realizations.

The wolf lowered it’s massive head, bringing it’s jaw closer to John’s outstretched foot. He pulled his leg in towards himself, pushing both feet under so that he could stand. He could feel the beginnings of rough stone under his hand, the cobblestone path that led up to the entrance of the castle. He was so close, but he knew there was no way he could make it before they caught him.

He had no weapon, not even a stick. He tried to think rapidly, distracted by their slow advance. The one in front took another step closer, while two others circled around to his side, sniffing the air. John could hear no help coming, not even the flap of giant wings.

This was it. He was going to die.

Nearly ten years in her majesties services getting shot at and he was going to bloody die _here_ , eaten by wolves.

John sucked in a shuddering breath, vicious anger rising in his chest. If he was going to die here, he was not going down without a fight. He jumped to his feet and held his hands out, at the ready.

“Come on you wankers, come have at me.” He muttered mutinously, glaring at the beasts. The one in front growled at him, it’s hackles rising and it’s hair standing on end. John could see it’s muscles tensing, getting ready to spring. He planted his feet firmly in the ground, ignored the frantic pounding of his heart, and prepared to shove his thumb into the beast’s eye when it lunged.

But the animal didn’t get that far, because there was a sudden gust of wind behind him. _Thud, thud, thud._

John turned, wild exhilaration surging up in his gut at the sight of the dragon, of _Lord Holmes_ dropping to the ground, his wings still spread widely as he hissed angrily, spines bristling. He took an unconscious step back, but somehow he _knew_ that the Lord wasn’t giving such a hostile display for his benefit.

The wolves retreated quickly, but only gave a few feet of ground. They were suddenly snapping and snarling savagely, an unbroken string of anger at the intruder. John tried to step away, out from between them, but the Lord took two heavy steps forward, which brought John right next to his massive chest. He could feel the heat radiating from those gleaming red scales, he could have reached out and touched them.

Three of the wolves began to circle around, dividing the Lord’s attention expertly. His massive head swung to each side, silver eyes trying to watch all four of them at once as he rumbled dangerously, deep in his chest. His long neck arched, spines jutting up high and bristling in his anger as he hissed at them again, John could feel the hot air on the back of his shoulders and head.

One of the wolves to his right lunged, snapping loudly as long canines came together. The Lord swung his head around to snap back, one clawed foot reaching out to wrap around John and pull him closer. John gaped down at the… fingers? Toes? -of his left front paw as it held him steady, against his chest. He gripped the claws for balance as heard a sharp roar of pain from his protector.

The wolf to his left had taken advantage of his distraction and attempted to sink it’s teeth into the Lord’s thigh. That long scaled neck swung around, snarling at the mongrel as it tore at his flank, but another wolf lunged from his right and bit into his right shoulder. With the Lord’s attention focused furiously to his right once again, John strained against the iron grip that held him to watch the wolf attached to his thigh. It’s teeth made little purchase against his hard scales. It’s jaws, trying viciously to rip into the Lord’s thigh, made as little progress as if he had been trying to bite into stone.

John could hear the scrape of the Lord’s clawed feet across the stone as he widened his stance. He blinked snow out of his eyes as he tried to pry the claws away from his torso, the white flakes were falling more heavily now, littering the ground around them and causing his feet to slip as he struggled, leaving him leaning on the paw that held him captive momentarily for support. The string of growls from the wolves ripped through the air, he felt the massive body behind him jerk and sway as the Lord lunged his neck and head out at them, overwhelmed by fighting off so many attackers at once.

An angry roar came from the chest behind him, the sound so close and so loud that it momentarily cut off every other sense, save his sight. He blinked once, catching his bearings before he tried to twist around and see what had caused the Lord to cry out in such a way. The wolf had moved around to bite at his leg from another angle, teeth tearing at the more tender inside of his thigh. John could see pieces of soft red flesh on the ground below it, littering the snow, along with splatters of thick, steaming blood.

John cursed, trying to pull away with more effort as the Lord hissed angrily again behind him. Cold air burned his face as the heat from the body behind him burned his back. Had he suddenly grown warmer? The scales behind him nearly burned as he struggled, trying to pry himself away.

John felt the Lord’s body jerk and he ceased his attempts at escape to see that one of the wolves on the right had managed to jumped forward and grip a bunched muscle in the Lord’s shoulder between its muzzle. Before the Lord could react against the offender, another wolf lunged at his front, coming so close to John that he could have reached out and grabbed it, had his arms not been pinned. With such speed that John could barely see the movement, the Lord struck his foreleg out, briefly balancing on his two hind legs, to swat at the mongrel. He connected with the beast, sending its large body flying across the ground to land with a sharp pained yelp.

John didn’t have attention to spare for the animal, as at that moment he heard a ringing crack, like the sound of glass breaking. He turned his head towards the sound to see tiny shards of red falling, littering the ground below the Lord’s right side. John squinted at them for a moment, unable to make out what they were.

The Lord roared again, his body moving suddenly in a violent shake. John saw thick drops of blood beginning to fall onto the snow with the shards, and he finally realized that they were pieces of scales. The wolf on his right was chewing, breaking off pieces of his scales to get to the weaker flesh underneath. By the look of the growing puddle of blood on the ground, it was succeeding.

John gasped as he was suddenly pushed down to the ground and held there. The Lord Holmes whirled above him, his wide jaw snapping around the wolf to his right, flexing once. John heard the the sharp yelp, and the sudden _crack,_ before the lifeless body was flung away.

Another wolf lunged at his right, while the one at his left still tore into his left thigh, releasing and repositioning it’s muzzle for a more secure hold. John cried out as he watched the dark blood pour from the Lord’s thigh where those sharp teeth tore at him.

The clawed foot above him was suddenly lifted and slammed back into the earth next to his head, steadying the huge scaled body above him. John scrambled underneath him, his torso scraping along the snow and rocks until he reached the mongrel. It was still ripping at the Lord’s thigh, it’s thick neck was jerking, trying to rip a hunk of flesh away from his body. John bared his teeth angrily as he reached the animal and grabbed a hold of it’s back paw, the only part of it that he could reach. With a sharp twist and flex of his arm, he felt the bone in the wolf’s leg break. It shook it's head and released it's grip, howling with pain as it tried to limp away.

The thud of a heavy body drew his attention, and he rolled over onto his stomach, feeling hot blood soak into his shirt from the ground, eyes searching before he found that the Lord had managed to throw another one off of him. The one remaining wolf seemed to sense defeat and backed away, growling as it was joined by one of it’s limping companions. One was still lying motionless on the ground.

John crawled out from under the Lord quickly, letting his gaze settle on his scaled head. His sharp eyes were still watching the wolves, his long teeth were bared. There were splashes of hot blood on the ground all around them. John could see the steam rising from them from the cold.

The Lord stood his ground, feet planted firmly on the cobblestones as the animals slowly retreated, giving them one last lingering look before they disappeared into the trees. When they finally departed, John rushed around to the inspect the damage to the Lord’s shoulder, but before he could get a look the dragon collapsed heavily on the ground with a groan.

He lay on his side, his breathing labored as his body began to shudder violently. John watched, hands raised uselessly and eyes wide in amazement while the Lord’s body began to change, scales sliding and melting away like wax. The sound, that strange rustling, erupted around them as spines shifted and gem-like plates shrunk in size and adjusted around each other.

John could hear cracks and pops as bones pulled apart and rearranged themselves, he could see muscles contracting as the dragon's body remade itself before his eyes, leaving a misshapen man in it’s place. The Lord’s body was finally back to normal, the black spines over his head and the back of his neck pressed nearly flat against his skull, the small scales that covered his jaw and shoulders moved back into place.

He hesitated, unsure of whether or not he should attempt to help him, but then the Lord groaned and rolled over, his heaving chest exposed. He was utterly naked, and John could see the mangled mess that were his thigh and shoulder, blood pumping into the ground around him, soaking into the dirt. Without another moment lost, John rushed to his side, pulling his shirt off with quick jerking movements.

He tore off each sleeve and wrapped one around the Lord’s shoulder, just above the wound. With a deep breath, he wrapped the other around his upper thigh, pointedly ignoring his exposed genitals and the lingering pleasure at the knowledge that they seemed perfectly fine and functional. Definitely not something to be thinking about at that moment. Or any moment. Ever.

When he was satisfied that his makeshift tourniquets would do their intended job, John pulled the the Lord’s uninjured arm over his shoulder and lifted him off of the ground, widening his stance before he made his way to the castle entrance.

His progress was slow, but steady. The Lord remained blessedly unconscious throughout the entire ordeal, his head lolling limply to one side as John half carried, half dragged him up the stone steps and to the front doors. He had expected to have to knock and shout to get someone to answer them, but upon staggering up the last few steps the doors simply opened, without any hint of there being anyone to open them.

Instead of calling out, John chose to ignore the unmanned doors that moved on their own, and walked into the castle, unsurprised when they shut behind him of their own accord. He took a quick look around, having never been in this part of the castle and was unsure of where to go, when he saw the flickering light of a fire up the stairs to his right.

Swallowing a groan, John secured his hold on the Lord and began to make his way up the stairs towards the light. It seemed that only the oil lamps in the direction that he needed to go had been lit, lighting his path as he made his way through the halls and up another flight of stairs. After only a few minutes, John found himself on the familiar landing in which he began every day’s explorations.

Now in familiar territory, he made his way up one last set of stairs, his legs burning with the effort, and down the hall to his room. The door had been left open for them, a fire had been lit and a fresh hot bath had been prepared. John lingered in the doorway before he finally made his way towards the fire. The Lord’s skin was chilled, and he had lost too much blood. Laying him down near the fire was his best option. Anyway, he would need the light.

He laid the limp body down on the floor and stepped quickly over to the bed, pulling the thick top quilt off and folding it in half. He laid it on the floor in front of the fireplace, then lifted the Lord’s unconscious body onto the quilt. With a gruff breath, he quickly tugged one of the throw blankets off of an armchair and draped it over the Lord’s midsection in an attempt to preserve some of his dignity. And John’s sanity.

Pleased with his placement, John turned to the tub and retrieved the rag he used for washing, and some of the medical supplies that were still on the table. He set to work quickly, beginning with the injury on his thigh as it was the worst. He washed the wound vigorously, taking advantage of his patients oblivious mind while he could.

The bite was deep and messy, the animal's jaws had made quick work of the tender muscle once the scales had been ripped away. John was confused to find that even though it had looked so mangled only fifteen minutes previous, it didn’t seem as bad in the light of the fire. Pushing the thought from his mind, he finished flushing out the torn flesh and started stitching quickly.

He was nearly halfway finished when a deep moan sounded from the Lord’s throat, and his head rolled to the side. His clawed fingers began to twitch and flex and his eyelids began to flutter rapidly. John kept stitching, more careful now as he watched for signs that the Lord would jerk away.

He moved as quickly as he could, his fingers sure in the familiar task. He couldn’t help the occasional flicker of his gaze, raking over the Lord’s lax body as he worked, drinking in the sight while he remained unconscious and at ease. His form was lean and graceful, full of sharp angles and muscular indentions. His jutting hipbones were particularly distracting, rising just above the line of the blanket John had used to cover his groin.

Just as he finished with the last of the stitching and cut away the thin thread, the body beneath him jerked, the Lord sat up, eyes darting around wildly before landing on him. With a snarl, the Lord thrust his hand out, wrapping those deft and clawed fingers around John’s throat, and _squeezed._

 


	8. Chapter Eight

John brought his hands to the fist that was clenched around his neck, his mouth worked in vain as he gasped for breath. Those silver eyes narrowed at him as the muscles in his arm flexed. John couldn’t help but morbidly notice how his scales glittered in the firelight, how his pronounced jaw and cheekbones made him look regal, and how his spines gave him the appearance of some dark and fascinating creature. Which he was.

A dark and fascinating creature that was currently choking the life from him.

John grabbed at his claws, trying unsuccessfully to pull them away. The edge of his vision started to darken and John started to relax, which was definitely a bad sign. He attempted a different tactic, and let one of his hands fall down to point weakly at the Lord’s injured leg. Those silver eyes glanced down, widening slightly as he saw the stitching, and looked back up at John, attention raking over his face.

John tried to plead with his eyes. He vaguely noticed that the Lord was holding his upper body up with one arm, without showing any strain. He didn’t have time to linger on the ample strength of his captor, before the fingers around his throat relaxed enough for him to suck in a breath.

The Lord released him and John sagged onto the floor, holding himself up with one arm while the other clutched his own bruised neck. He heaved heavily, resupplying oxygen to his deprived brain, while the Lord watched him tensely.

“I was-only trying-to help you.” John gasped, massaging his neck. It seemed to have been the wrong thing to say.

“You wouldn’t have had to help me at all if you hadn’t disobeyed my direct orders.” The Lord spat angrily, moving his body so that he was sitting upright.

“Well pardon me for wandering into your restricted area _unintentionally!_ I was simply lost, I meant no harm.” John retorted, bristling.

“Certainly your sense of direction doesn’t leave that much to be desired. Such simple instructions, and yet you’re unable to follow them. You _must_ be addled.” The Lord growled, his voice deepening dangerously. John stubbornly squashed the odd flutter in his gut.

“My sense of direction is just fine, thank you! This place is a sodding maze!” John found himself shouting.

“Perhaps you should just remain where you are supposed to and stay out of my affairs!” The Lord growled again, seething as his shoulders and neck flexed with tension. His sharp teeth were bared, his stomach taut with ire.

“Perhaps you should learn to control your bloody temper!” John yelled.

The Lord hissed angrily and his hand shot out again, this time clamping fingers around John’s jaw to still his words. His eyes were narrowed, his expression seething. John gripped at his hand again, trying to pry the iron fingers away, his body tense with the struggle. Suddenly, years of wrestling with Harry and army buddies kicked in and John opened his mouth as wide as he could manage, then jerked forward and sunk his teeth into the flesh between the Lord’s thumb and forefinger.

His tongue grazed the tender skin unintentionally, and the hand loosened. John saw silver eyes widen in surprise as the hand and the body attached to it froze. John was able to pull away, letting the hand drop between them just as the Lord turned his startled gaze away, schooling his expression.

John’s heart was suddenly pounding in his chest. Had he mistaken the look on the Lord’s face? Had it merely been surprise, or had a lingering interest and flicker of desire danced behind those expressive eyes? It had disappeared too soon for John to be certain. His lips were suddenly dry, unknown words died in his mouth as he hesitated, watching the Lord regain his composure.

“I will admit that my temperament is somewhat… unpredictable.” He murmured, his gaze resting on the fire. The angle of his head towards the flames displayed his profile to John’s advantage, and John relished in the opportunity to study his pensive face. “It was not my intention to frighten you. I was merely caught off guard. I… apologize for my rash behavior.” He said this last with closed eyes and through clenched teeth, with an expression of intense agony. John had the impression that the Lord Holmes did not make a habit of apologies.

“I appreciate your medical attentions. You may carry on.” The Lord added, more comfortable with the change of topic. “If you wouldn’t mind.” He added, as an afterthought. He looked back over at John, studying his face with disguised intent.

John averted his eyes, feeling a flush of heat over his cheeks. He mentally berated himself, was he seriously blushing? No. Not a chance in hell. He was a twenty nine year old hardened army veteran and trained medical doctor with advanced tactical training and experience. He did not _blush_. He _especially_ did not blush for _men_.

With a huff, he gestured for Lord Holmes to lay back. The Lord followed his orders with some hesitation, clearly not used to following orders at all. He laid his lean body back, clearly ill at ease with his own nudity, and propped himself up on his elbows while he raised his injured leg, bending it slightly at the knee with his foot resting on the quilt.

John retrieved the rag and rinsed it thoroughly before returning to the injury. The lingering pressure of sharp eyes on him made him put forth extra effort. He carefully rinsed off the blood from the stitching, pressing down and wiping gently so as to cause as little pain as possible. The Lord’s body was tense, but he never flinched or shied away from John’s touch.

When the wound was clean, John stood and washed his hands thoroughly before applying the antibiotic ointment with his fingertips, generously coating the stitching before he washed his hands once again and applied a dressing and bandage.

“I need to tend to your shoulder now. You’ll need to sit up. Try not to put too much strain on your leg, you have a lot of muscle damage and if you irritate it too much it won’t heal correctly. Take my hand and I’ll pull you up to a sitting position. Don’t strain yourself.” John ordered, aware of his commanding tone but choosing not to care. In their current state, the Lord was not John’s host, but his patient.

He held out his hand, trying to keep his expression neutral. The Lord’s gaze swept between his offered hand and his face, a brief hesitation stalling his response. John nearly sighed when he relented, sliding his clawed fingers into John’s palm. John fought the urge to swallow thickly, barely able to breathe passed the sudden tension in the air. Though, whether the Lord was aware of it, was impossible to tell.

John pulled gently, lifting the Lord’s body to a sitting position. His back was straight and rigid, betraying his pain and discomfort to John’s practiced eyes. With both of them sitting, the Lord’s shoulder was too high for John to see it properly, so he stood and pulled an armchair across the stone floor and next to the makeshift cot, angling it so that he could sit and inspect the wound.

He leaned towards the Lord, unable to immediately control the way he took in his lithe body and how it was angled, his shoulder just inches from John’s knees. The firelight flickered over his pale skin, glinting off of his scales, red and orange and alive, shifting with each of the Lord’s pained breaths. His face was turned away, staring at nothing as John’s hands lingered over the skin of his shoulder. The throw blanket had bunched up around his hips, John could see the soft swell of his rear as it met the quilt on the floor inches away from John’s left foot.

He was unable to control his swallow this time, and could only hope that the Lord didn’t notice. He set to work, cleaning the dried blood from the mangled shoulder, surprised that the Lord was not voicing what could only be agony. Either his tolerance for pain was much more than John’s, or he simply did not feel pain like any other mortal man.

John couldn’t help but grimace when he began stitching, barely controlling his wince every time he pushed the needle through the ravaged flesh. He had never seen a man control his pain like Lord Holmes. He made no move, he did not tremble. Only the stiffness of his shoulders and the tightness of his eyes betrayed his suffering.

When his task was finally complete, John wiped sweat from his brow with his forearm. His own bare chest glistened with perspiration in the dimming light. He sighed as he heaved himself off of the chair to wash his hands, then sat back down with the ointment as swirled his fingers around in the jar.

“By the way…” He spoke, his voice barely above a murmur as he began to gently administer the ointment. “Thank you… for saving my life.” He finished, watching the Lord’s still turned away face. He could barely make out those silver blue eyes flickering over towards him, widening in surprise. His lips parted, pausing, before he responded.

“You’re welcome.”

The tension seemed to melt away then, with the sound of his resonating voice. John allowed himself a small smile before he stood to wash his hands again. They spent the next few minutes in silence, and while still not entirely companionable, at least not as strained as before. John bandaged the Lord’s shoulder, finishing with a satisfied sigh before falling back into the chair, suddenly overcome with exhaustion.

He leaned his head back and let his eyes fall closed for just a moment, thinking of the entire ordeal and wondering how he was still awake at all. His entire body ached. He could still feel the stinging cuts on his legs and arms, and the soft burn from the cold wind on his face and neck. When he opened his eyes once again, he found Lord Holmes’s eyes upon him.

His eyes, so suddenly _human_ , had been lingering over his bare chest, but upon seeing John rouse had flickered up to his face. The black spines over his head looked almost soft in the firelight, his face was almost normal, with only the barest amount of scales etching his jaw. Though his back was nearly completely covered in the gem-like plates, his chest and stomach were merely pale, smooth flesh. His nose was straight and perfect, his lips full and the palest pink, while his eyes… his _eyes_ …

No normal human man could ever have eyes so piercing, so impossibly deep and full of such wistful longing. John had the sudden strangely painless sensation of something clenching tightly around his heart.

The Lord averted his gaze, looking back towards the fire, much more subdued. John gave him a moment of implied privacy, while wishing he knew what exactly he had been thinking for his face to harbor such a look, before he cleared his throat and spoke softly.

“I know it will be inconvenient for you, but you shouldn’t move for now, at least a week. I’ll fetch you some pillows and more linens and prop you up to make you comfortable, but you need to relax and move as little as possible while your body heals. I can get you set up here and sleep in another room.”

Lord Holmes didn’t turn to look at him again, merely gave a short nod. John wondered if he had even heard what he said. With a sigh he stood, joints popping and aching while he walked across the room to the bed. He pulled off all of the pillows and blankets and carried them over, setting them around the Lord and arranging them to his satisfaction.  

He was kneeling on one knee, just beside where Lord Holmes lay back against the pillows, pulling another blanket up to the Lord’s waist and checking to make sure there was nothing else that he could do to secure the man’s comfort when he could stall no longer.

“Is there anything else you need? Would you like me to run down to the kitchens and fetch you some supper or-“

“I do not require anything else. You may take your leave.” The Lord answered, his voice low and without emotion. John paused, still on one knee as he looked to the Lord’s face in hesitation, his lips parted with the words he was about to speak.

John would have thought that the Lord’s state of mind was perfectly calm and collected, from the expression on his face. There was no hint of tension in his eyes, his mouth was smooth and relaxed, his breathing was even and controlled. But something was simmering underneath the collected exterior, something hiding just out of John’s sight.

His silent refusal to look in John’s direction would have been another hint.

“Right. Well I’ll just… I’ll be right down the hall. I’ll come and check on you again in the morning and change your bandages and see if you… require anything. Good night.” John said, tone soft but even. He stood, suffering a grimace as his body protested, and turned to leave the room. He stole one last look before he left, to see his unchanged profile staring into the fire, before shutting the door quietly behind him.

——

The morning greeted him cheerily with stiff joints and an insistent ache _everywhere_. He had picked a room at random, almost directly across the hall from his own. It had been dark and cold, with no fire to make him feel welcome. He had fallen into the bed regardless, wrapped as many blankets around himself as he could, then fallen asleep quickly for a long, dreamless slumber.

Now he regretted sleeping in such a cold, lifeless room. It was still dark, the kind of blackness that swallowed your entire body until you couldn’t even see a hand in front of your face. John fumbled out of the blankets, unable to recall if it had been so dark the night before. He climbed clumsily out of the large bed and shuffled along the wall until his shin came into contact with the chamber pot he knew was there, with a little more force than he would have liked.

Biting down a curse, John relieved himself quickly, then stuffed his prick back into the warmth of his trousers. Making his way across the room, he fumbled with the handle of the heavy door and pulled it open, relieved to see the light of the oil lamps in the hall beyond.

He felt immediately more alert once he stepped out into the hall, the light permeated his senses like liquid awareness, washing the last vestige of sleep from his mind. The air was warmer as well, a welcome relief to his chilled skin. Taking a deep breath to calm his frayed nerves, John crossed the hall and stepped up to the door that hid the cause for his sudden anxiety.

Would the Lord be awake? What frame of mind would he be in, after the events of the day before? Would he welcome John’s presence? Would he demand that he leave? Or would he be treated with the same cool indifference as the previous night? John frowned to himself, unsure of how to proceed. Should he knock? What if there was no answer? He reached down to tug at the hem of his shirt, an old nervous habit, before he remembered that he wasn’t wearing one. He reached a hand up to flatten his sleep tousled hair instead, while huffing an irate breath out as he took that last few steps up to the door.

He raised a hand to knock but paused upon hearing a murmured voice through the door. So he was awake then? The voice ceased, only to pick up again. No… not one person… _two_ people. The Lord was not alone in the room.

John gasped, taking half a step back just as he heard Lord Holmes’s deep tenor speak out.

“You may enter.” He was obviously speaking to John. How had he known he was outside the door? Swallowing anxiously, John pushed the door open and stepped into the room.

There were indeed two people in the room. Lord Holmes was precisely where John had left him the night before, but he was sitting upright, John noticed with a twinge of annoyance. He had explicitly stated that the Lord was not to move. But John did not have the attention to spare him at the moment.

The other person was a man, impeccably dressed in brown trousers and a white travel shirt, with a matching brown vest. He was thin, with a receding hairline and had a nose that bordered on being slightly too large for his long face. He was probably quite tall as well, but it was hard to judge with any accuracy as he was currently sitting stiffly in the arm chair John had occupied the night before, though he had drug it around to face Lord Holmes.

Both men were watching John expectantly, and John suddenly remembered that he was only half dressed.

He flushed involuntarily, hating the way their eyes seemed to pick him apart as he stood there. He forced away the urge to fidget and met their gazes with stern indifference as he opened his mouth to speak, but the unnamed man was quicker.

“So this is your new doctor. You surprise me Sherlock. I have always been under the assumption that you were adverse to the idea of picking up strays. Whatever changed your mind?” He asked, his upper crust accent making John feel like an outright ruffian. By the time John felt the shock at hearing Lord Holmes’s name spoken with such familiarity, he was already responding.

“Not that is is any of your concern, but Doctor Watson found his way into the estate entirely on his own. I had no part in it. It would have been irresponsible of me to send him away after he had seen… all that goes on here.” Lord Holmes drawled with a sigh.

John looked to him, taking his eyes away from the newcomer finally. He saw it now, the rigid tension in his shoulders, the stern line of his lips, the tightness around his eyes. He was unhappy with his guest for some reason, and John wasn’t entirely sure that he didn’t feel exactly the same way.

“I see.” The man said, with the barest of smirks. He was studying John with a scrutiny so intense that he could almost _feel_ the eyes on his body. But as keen as the man was in his inspection, it was not sexual in any way. He stared so raptly, almost like he was reading something that was of great interest to him. “I suppose my reasoning for paying you a visit has been rendered unnecessary now, with your guest here being so ready to tend to your _needs_.” He finished, his smirk even more pronounced now. He said the words ‘needs’ as though it was dirty and slimy in his mouth.

John bristled, catching on to his insinuation. He opened his mouth to defend himself, face scalding, but Lord Holmes intervened quickly.

“Don’t be a prat, Mycroft. I did not request a visit regardless, so you might as well be on your way. I believe I’ve had enough _social interaction_ to last me at least another ten years. Go terrorize some other poor sod and leave me to my own business.” Lord Holmes spat, turning his face away in a manner that reminded John of an errant child. He gaped at the Lord, surprised at his frank rudeness and pouty contempt. He was obviously familiar with this Mycroft character. John felt a sinking fear as he wondered just how familiar they were. Were they previous lovers?

“A pleasure, as always, Sherlock. I wish I could say that I miss your smart mouth and intolerable brazenness but alas, I most certainly do not. Good day.” The man called Mycroft said as he stood, straightening his vest contemptuously. He nodded once down his nose at John before he swept from the room without another word.

John couldn’t help but gape after him for a moment before turning to Lord Holmes. The Lord was watching him with a measure of calm indifference as he turned, and John once again remembered that he was only partially dressed. Shoving down his embarrassment, he took a step towards the Lord and gestured to his person.

“May I have a look?” He inquired, determined not to let the strange interaction unsettle him. Lord Holmes nodded, his eyes remaining locked on John’s face.

John lowered himself down to his knees beside the Lord, moving to gently pull away the wrappings around his shoulder. John gasped as the last of the bandage fell away, unable to contain his shock. The skin around his wound was pink and flaking, the flesh had knitted together seamlessly, leaving spidering thin lines of white scar tissue with bits of black thread poking out. Then entire injury look days, perhaps weeks old, instead of just mere hours.

If anything else could have stunned him about the Lord’s strange existence, this would have been it.

“I don’t… I don’t understand.” He finally uttered, staring from the wound to the Lord’s bored expression. “How can this have… Why didn’t you tell me? You obviously didn’t need my help. Why did you let me carry on tending to you if you didn’t need it?” He asked, torn between mortification and awe.

The Lord seemed to hesitate, gaze flickering between John’s eyes as his lips parted with impending words. John found himself holding his breath, intrigued by whatever thought was causing the man, usually so stoic and in complete control, such sudden uncertainty. The words, when finally spoken, started a warm sensation in his gut.

“No one has physically touched me, willingly, since my… transformation. Forgive me, my moment of weakness. I merely missed the pleasure of human contact.” He murmured, his voice, _that voice_ , sounding _so achingly human_. John felt another desperate squeeze around his heart. Without giving himself time to think it through for fear of changing his mind, John placed a tentative hand on the Lord’s forearm, causing those sharp eyes to snap back up to his face.

“There is no need for you to apologize, my Lord. I have…” He paused, unsure of how to word his intentions without stumbling over his words or causing the Lord to misconstrue his meaning. He had never been very glib. “I have no intention of leaving anytime soon. You might as well get used to my presence here. And… I am happy to provide you with company. I know how loneliness can take it’s toll on a man.” He finished, with a sad smile. He tried to ignore the frantic beating of his nervous heart as the Lord inspected his face, searching desperately for something that John had no knowledge of.

“Sherlock.” He finally responded, his eyes never leaving John’s face.

“I’m sorry?” John blinked, so caught up in his own thoughts and the close proximity to the Lord.

“My name. You may call me by my name, instead of by my title. I would prefer it, actually. It would… please me. If you were to call me Sherlock.” He said, his voice so impossibly deep and sensuous. John swallowed convulsively.  

“Oh. Right then.” He replied, a little breathless. He couldn’t help the sharp tug just behind his navel as he uttered the word.

“Sherlock.”

 


	9. Chapter Nine

Pulling the unnecessary bits of black thread out of the Lord’s… Sherlock’s… shoulder proved to be a long and arduous process. As he had healed, the skin had tightened on it’s own around the stitching, pulling it in some places and breaking it in others. John had him turn and angle his body a certain way, so that he could use the light of the fire to his advantage as he plucked out the tiny threads, wincing as they caught on the healed flesh.

Sherlock was once again stoic as John worked, his eyes closed and and his face lax as the tiny bits of black thread were pulled from his flesh. John could not help the occasional flicker of his gaze, drinking in his smooth, pale skin, his gleaming scales, the black spines that shined like midnight. It took the maximum effort to control the urge to let his fingers ghost over the creamy flesh of his neck and collarbone. John nearly bit his lip in an attempt to focus on something, anything, besides the tempting body in front of him.

There was simply no denying it now, he wanted Sherlock. He _wanted_ him, wanted him in ways that were certainly not proper, in ways that he could only admit to himself in the deepest stirrings of his consciousness. He had never felt such an animalistic need for another person, and certainly not one whose status so far outranked his own, and a _man_ at that.

But it was certainly there, the desire to run his fingers over the man in front of him, the impulse to ravage those full lips and sink down into the darkest depths of debasement with the alluring body kneeled before him. He wanted to dig his fingers into those delicious hipbones, to explore the arch of his lower back with his tongue.

John inhaled sharply, pulling air into his too full lungs while he desperately tried to shake the image from his mind. He had closed his eyes in an attempt to escape the tempting view in front of him and when he let his eyelids flutter open again, he found himself pinned under the weight of those sharp eyes on his face. He froze, trying to sort out his own expression and hoped with desperation that Sherlock couldn’t see passed the facade and into the miasma of thoughts beneath its surface.

“Well that’s the last of the stitching from your shoulder. I’ll have to, ah, pull the bits from your leg now.” The words, forced from his mouth, sounded breathless. Sherlock’s eyes were still boring into his face, and John felt that he surely knew what he had been thinking. Instead of giving into the urge to look away, he stared back defiantly, hating the feel of flush over his skin.

But then Sherlock simply laid back, adjusting the blanket over his midsection before he propped himself up by his elbows on the pillows behind him. John sent a silent prayer upwards as he tried not to look at the sharp indentations of his stomach as his muscles bunched and clenched with the movement. He set to work on Sherlock’s thigh, pulling the thread with tweezers and wiping beading smears of blood with a wet cloth.

He focused intently on the work, a welcome relief from his mind’s previous occupation. He was still keenly aware of Sherlock’s gaze on his face, but he did not flounder under the scrutiny. On the contrary, he sat steeled under it, determined not to show weakness. The light of the fire flickered merrily over them as he worked, and eventually he was surprised to hear Sherlock voice a question.

“When did you last eat?” _That voice_ , so soft and surprisingly tender, pulled John’s gaze forcefully to the mouth that had birthed it.

“Yesterday morning I suppose, before all the… excitement.” He murmured, turning once again to focus on his work with weakening determination. There weren’t many threads left.

“Unacceptable. I will have a midday meal prepared and served in the dining hall. I will expect your presence there promptly, after we are finished here and have taken the appropriate amount of time to wash and dress.” The words were strong and unyielding, but the tone he used was soft and persuasive, turning what should have been a sharp command into a delicate invitation. Though he kept his eyes fixed on the Lord’s, ah- Sherlock’s -leg, he could feel the pregnant weight of an unanswered question lingering in the air between them. It was a request, after all.

“I would be happy to join you for lunch Sherlock.” John responded, mimicking the soft tone that his host had adopted. His reward was instantaneous and more gratifying that John would have expected.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered at the sound of his own name, so quickly that John nearly missed it. His body was tensed and coiled, almost trembling, but his face… his face.

A slight darkening of his cheeks, a tinge of pink so subtle that John would have mistaken it for something else had he not seen the rest of the reaction that accompanied it. Sherlock’s lips parted just so, his usually sharp silver eyes sunk two shades darker, to the color of a stormy sky. His chest heaved once, a great intake of breath as his right leg shifted, the one not under John’s tender care.

If John didn’t know any better, he would think… but no… certainly not?

“Wonderful. As soon as I have your leave then, Doctor.” He offered, with a slight twist of his tantalizing lips. John nearly gaped. Could he be… was he being coy? The flattening of his spines, his narrowed eyes, the slight upward curve of his mouth. He was teasing, John realized. This glorious man, so somber and humorless, was _teasing_ him.

Once again the warm rush of excitement shuddered through him, seeming to accumulate in his groin. If he didn’t get the Lord out of there soon, John may end up embarrassing himself quite thoroughly.

“Well then, as your doctor, you have my permission to rise. Your wounds seem to have mostly healed, no point in bed rest now. Let me know if you have any stiffness or soreness, but I doubt you will, at the rate you’re healing.” He finished, almost begrudgingly as he tried to smother his own smile.

He wiped the last smear of red from Sherlock’s thigh before leaning back on his heels with an inward groan. His back ached from his prolonged position on the floor, but he ignored it’s protests and he stood, grimacing as the joints in his knees popped loudly. He turned to rinse his hands in the now cold water in the tub, simultaneously giving Sherlock privacy as he stood, the sound of fabric rustling around him.

However, he couldn’t help but follow his blanket wrapped form with longing as Sherlock strode passed him and to the door, opening it with a quick jerk of his arm. He turned to look at John, poised just in front of the open door, and spoke easily, all soft tenderness gone from his voice.

“I will see you shortly, then.” Then, with one quick nod, he swept from the room, leaving it cold and bare in his absence.

John felt suddenly weak, his knees lasting only long enough to drop him into the chair left vacant by the man called Mycroft. The mere thought of him sent John spiraling into uncertainty again, and he lingered in the emotion before shoving it from his mind, determined to prepare himself for his impending reunion with Sherlock.

Pulling courage around him like armor, John stood and walked over to the cold tub, sighing as he began to unbutton his trousers.

——

The dining hall was warm with bright firelight from the massive chandeliers and bracketed torches along the walls. The center table had been set, the aroma of a succulent roasted boar wafted through the air as he drew closer. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen as John sat, to the right of the table’s end. He waited patiently, letting his gaze devour the feast set in front of him.

The boar was placed in the center, with fresh green garnishments arranged around it, a very pretty sight. Smaller dishes circled around it’s presentation; Yorkshire Pudding, fresh bread, beans, buttered peas, fried mushrooms, Black Pudding, mixed steamed vegetables, deviled eggs, roasted potatoes, and a long necked bottle of dark red wine. It was a meal set out for a large party of people, not two.  

John could hear his own stomach rumbling with hunger, echoing loudly in the cavernous room. The warmth from the fires warmed his skin, still chilled from the cold water of the tub. His body still ached from his exertions, groaning in protest as he sat on the hard wooden bench. In all, he felt like complete shit.

But his discomfort was pushed to the back of his mind to make room for more important things.

Something had changed, the balance between himself and Sherlock had shifted, the distance had lessened. Gone was the shroud of threatening danger and fear, only to be replaced with anxious uncertainty and tentative promise of something… more. John could not have been completely mistaken, there was certainly some depth of feeling in Sherlock’s gaze, some level of incredulous interest in his posture as he lay on the floor before John only an hour before. It had to have been something. And John would not let it rest until he figured it out.

If there was even the slightest chance that Sherlock would or even could return his rapidly growing affection, his desire and intrigue, then John would explore that possibility as best as he could. He had questions, so many questions, and now seemed to be the time to voice them. Maybe Sherlock would listen and answer, rather than angrily avoid or even outright blatantly ignore him.

His musing was interrupted as a subtle movement caught his attention. Sherlock was walking slowly towards him, an air of caution about his movements. John sat up straighter and gave a small, hopefully encouraging smile as he studied his host. He was certainly magnificent, striding forward with no hint of injury, clean and impeccably dressed once again. John suffered the familiar feeling of self consciousness at his approach. He could not even hope to compete with Sherlock’s beauty.

His pale skin was smooth, dark scales and spines once again giving the illusion of hair where there was none. The gems along his jaw and neck glittered, red and mischievous, while his flashing silver eyes took in John’s appearance. He sat with fluid grace, clawed fingers wrapping easily around the bottle of red wine in front of them. John heard the _clicking_ of scales and claws as he gripped the glass.

“You have questions.” He said, his voice rubbing along John’s skin like velvet.

“Yes, how do you do that?” John asked, suppressing the shudder but not the smile as he watched Sherlock pour them both a glass of wine.

“It’s written all over your face. Your lips part with the weight of your inquiries. You’re thinking so hard I can practically hear you. Not to mention your faraway expression when I entered the room, your mind heavy with musings. Go on, voice them.” He ordered gently, before bringing the glass to his lips.

John supposed he should have found it unsettling that he could be so easily read, but he suspected that it had less to do with his own tact and more to do with Sherlock’s incredible powers of observation. Nevertheless, he _did_ have questions.

“Who was Mycroft?” John suddenly asked, surprised with himself. He hadn’t given any thought to asking, and immediately wished he could suck the words back into this mouth. Sherlock’s face turned sour at the mention of the strange man, as though the wine had gone bad on his tongue.

“A pompous, insufferable, overbearing man with whom I have the misfortune of sharing blood.” He muttered darkly, staring passed John at some unseen thought or memory.

John froze at the response, torn between surprise and relief. Family. They were related. There was the source of his relief. The source of his surprise could be found in the vehement expression of dislike on Sherlock’s face as he thought of the man.

“So he’s your…?”

“Brother, yes.”

John sagged into the hard wooden back of his chair, reanalyzing the interaction between the two men. The borderline hostile antagonism seemed too real, not just the bickering of siblings.

“So you don’t get along then?” He inquired, stabbing a portion of the roast.

“Hardly.” Sherlock responded, his eyes narrowed at his wine as his voice took on a growling undertone. John thought it best to steer their conversation to a less dangerous subject.

“How come you’re the only person I’ve seen here? You obviously have servants. Where are they?” He asked carefully, using a slice of bread to mop up some of the extra gravy from the roast.

“Their occupation in the castle requires them to remain unseen. They are here, but you may not come into contact with them. That is all I can say on the subject as of right now.” John began to protest irritably, but Sherlock spoke again, cutting him off. “Not because I don’t want to tell you, John, but because I can’t. Please try to understand, and ask me no more on the matter.” He requested, firelight reflecting in his silvery blue eyes as they bored into John’s relentlessly. John stared back, thoroughly chastened and apologetic as he gave a solemn and respectful nod.

He continued to eat in silence for a few minutes, letting the small amount of information he had acquired sink and and settle in his mind. He watched Sherlock pick at his food with nimble claws and drink his wine almost daintily, perfectly poised and completely unruffled.

John let his most insistent questions linger silently on his tongue. There was so much that he had yet to understand, so much that he wanted to _know_. The one at the forefront of his mind was nagging, his awed interest in Sherlock’s strange form seemed unsatisfied, he wanted to know _how_ and _when_ and _why._

He wanted to know everything.

Finally, he swallowed and cleared his throat, watching as Sherlock’s eyes settled on him expectantly. John was momentarily distracted, watching the scales glitter along his jawline, watching the spines along his skull rustle with quiet and subdued interest.

“Right, about yesterday. You were a dragon.” He stated, pushing forward, passed his hesitancy until his words came out too bland. He might as well have been commenting on the tenderness of the roast. At this, Sherlock looked over at him, an arching eyebrow raised at his words.

“Yes. That is part of my… condition.” He answered, his lips pursed as he regarded John.

“Your condition?”

John took a bite of his peas and chewed, waiting patiently as Sherlock took another sip of his wine and swallowed thickly. The muscles of his throat contracted with the movement, his scales glimmering. The action seemed deliberate, stalling for time, perhaps? John suspected that he was either deciding whether or not to tell him, or how much to tell him.

“Are you nearly finished?” He finally asked, his gaze flickering down to John’s plate.

“Uh, well yes, I can be.” He said, frowning a little. Sherlock had hardly eaten anything himself. John’s frown expanded in disapproval at the thought.

“Would you care to take a walk with me? I have something I want to show you.”

His interest thoroughly peaked, John blinked, then set down his fork and wiped his hands on his trousers, looking at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock set his wineglass on the table and stood, smoothing his shirt with long, clawed fingers. John followed as he walked away from the table and towards the large open doors.

Sherlock led the way through the arched doorway and down a long hall. They walked in silence, and John found it difficult to remain quiet, so interested in where Sherlock was leading him.  He sensed that there were things that Sherlock wanted to say, so he bit his tongue and waited. His patience was soon rewarded.

“I have been pondering how to answer your questions, unsure of how to proceed. You must understand, I have never had to answer to anyone before, and there may some things that I am not comfortable speaking of, or simply unaware of the facts and therefore can not give you an accurate answer. Other than that, I have no qualms about answering your questions.” He said, glancing over at John as they walked slowly down the hall.

“The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable.” John responded earnestly, looking up to Sherlock’s face just as he looked away. They came to a large staircase and John followed as Sherlock began his ascent.

“I have been alone for quite some time. Perhaps the company will benefit me.” He mused softly, not looking at John as they walked.

“Try to keep an open mind, as some of the things I will tell you are of a sensitive nature and some of them not at all pleasant. And do try to reserve your questions for the end.” He warned, before taking a slow breath and beginning his narrative.

“My father was first cousin to the queen of England and second in line to the throne. My mother was from France, a duchess who was married to my father out of convenience. Though their union was a political one, it became one of love. They were happy together, and came to Bakershire in the year fourteen hundred and six. My older brother Mycroft was born in the year fourteen hundred and eight, and I was born six years later. We spent our childhoods here, our mother raised us well, with love and reverence. We were unusually gifted children, Mycroft and I, which soon became apparent. She followed our educations closely until she and father were lost at sea when I was seventeen. Their loss was devastating, but we continued the work she had left for us, like the good sons that we were.”

They had come to a window which overlooked a side of the castle that John had not yet seen, and though he should have been fascinated by the site, he couldn't tear his eyes away from Sherlock’s face. The year fourteen hundred and fourteen would have made the man in front of him sixty seven years old. John tried not to let the shock show on his face. He had no time to recover, as Sherlock continued unhindered.

“We surpassed our peers in all subjects, literature, mathematics, science. Mycroft became particularly interested in affairs of the state, while I developed an affinity for chemistry. Mycroft’s advanced genius led him to powerful positions in the government, while I became more and more adept at the art of chemical sciences and alchemy. The things I could do with the right mixtures were almost like magic. I could cure illnesses that doctors had no name for. I could create potions that with just a dab on the neck, could create artificial emotions for the wearer. I experimented with pheromones and precious metals, I even came close to making a solvent that could extend the life and youth of a person. I created mixtures that could alter anatomy and enhance vision and speed, even intelligence. People started to come to me from all around, asking for my work and throwing ridiculous amounts of money at me for my services. Useless, as I had no need for money as my parents had more than enough. But still, they tried…”

John began to guess where the story was heading and he could only stare at Sherlock in horrid fascination as he continued. His voice, where only moments ago had been eager and exhilarated, was now tight and contained.

“A frenchman came to me one day, asking for a potion that would make him irresistible to the one who drank it. This was a common request, one I had made many times before. I saw no danger in it, as the effects were temporary. Merely a chemical mix, with a few pheromones added in. I made the requested concoction and accepted payment, and sent the man on his way. I did not know who it was intended for, as I did not ask. A mistake that I regret to this day.” He whispered the last part and glanced towards John, catching his eye momentarily before he continued.

“The frenchman took the potion to court, where he used it upon the one person who he should not have. A one Mycroft Holmes. My brother’s position at court was a sensitive one, and the nature of his one-night tryst was soon discovered. Problems arose with his position and the young man’s employer, who was discovered to be one of Mycroft’s rivals. Mycroft’s fledgling career was nearly ruined, and they had used me to accomplish it.”

He came home to confront me, and I didn’t realize what had happened. We fought in my lab, recklessly, unconcerned with the dangerous chemicals around us. We fell and there was an… accident. I became what I am and Mycroft… he was ruined forever.”

In a fit of rage and despair I made a chemical bomb and used it upon the castle, intending to destroy the home our parents had left to me. It didn’t work the way that I had intended, and I have remained here to pick up the pieces of everything that I have broken since.” He finally finished, leaving John awestruck. Suddenly his first vision of him in the lab with all the bottle and glass instruments made complete sense.

They had come to a door that John felt was familiar, but Lord Holmes stood outside of it without moving to push it open, staring at John with caution. He stared back, not even attempting to smother the look of utter shock on his features. It was a lot to take in. He swallowed, gathering his wits before he spoke.

“So you’ve been like this since? You haven’t been able to… I don’t know, cure it?” John asked, to clarify.

“I have tried, but none of the compositions I’ve created seem to work. There are some that have come close, but they still seem to be lacking some crucial element that I can’t determine.” Sherlock responded, almost wistfully. John stared at his pale face, his secretly sad eyes. A sudden rush of affection surged through him, surprising him.

“But that is why you’re here, John.” John started again at the sound of his name coming out of that mouth, with that voice.

“Pardon?” He asked, frowning.

“You’re a medical man, are you not? Perhaps you can help me discover the component that I am missing.” Sherlock murmured then, and the change in tone had John swallowing convulsively.

“I…” John began, trying to catch his bearings, “I can certainly try.” He offered with a smile. Sherlock nodded at this, apparently pleased, then he _smiled._  

“Excellent. The game is on, then. Welcome to my lab.” He replied, still smiling brightly as his clawed hand wrapped easily around the handle to the door in front of them before pushing it open with a flourish.

And then John was looking into the room in which he had first witnessed his enigmatic companion. It was just as he remembered it, with the long table full of glass bottles and burners and measuring cups and various instruments of which the names eluded him. It was brightly lit and smelled of chemicals and John watched as the Lord swept into the room, his earlier guarded hesitance all but forgotten.

He began pointing out the names of various mixtures and substances contained in the sealed glass containers on the shelves, and some of the dried plants hanging from the ceiling. He explained to John exactly what some of the equipment did and all John could do was stand and stare and listen and observe as he witnessed a side to the Lord Holmes that he would never have guessed existed.

He had all the exuberance of a child, clearly excited to be sharing this with John, which John found to be an interesting and endearing trait to one who had shown such reserved vehemence not so long ago. He was almost like an entirely different person, and John was thrilled to know this new side of him. But that wasn’t all.

As he watched, his appearance seemed to change once again, the spines on his head seemed to grow softer, the dark scales along his jaw and down his neck seemed to grow lighter. His elongated fingers and claws seemed to shrink and take on a more human size, the sharp edges of his body became rounder and less defined. And even as the fascinating change occurred, he seemed to have no knowledge of it. He carried on speaking, words blurring together as he voiced them with such haste.

He finally stopped and turned to John, expectant and paused at the look on his face.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” He snapped, all of his earlier youthful enthusiasm gone, only to be replaced by his usual mask of arrogant indifference. The change was so quick, John was taken aback.

“I don’t know what you mean. How was I looking at you?” He asked, trying to school his features. Lord Holmes tilted his head to the side, pondering John in a way that made him feel like a specimen in a glass dish.

“I’m not sure. That’s the problem. It’s rare that I can’t decipher the meaning or emotion behind an expression, but yours honestly… baffle me. This is unacceptable. I need you to tell me exactly what you were thinking just a few moments ago.” He ordered, coming to stand directly in front of John while he waited expectantly. John gaped, flustered as he tried to drag his eyes away from the intriguing man in front of him.

“I… will not. That is an invasion of privacy. My thoughts and emotions are my own. I ask that you respect that.” He nearly gasped, trying to gain some composure. What the hell was wrong with him?

“Oh, very well.” Lord Holmes snapped, waving a clawed hand in front of his face. His features had began to change back to normal with his temperament and John remained amazed at how swift and subtle the difference was. He made an effort not to stare openly, but took to stealing glances when he was sure his companion would not see.

Sherlock continued to school John on the equipment for many hours. The doctor did his best to listen and asked many questions, which instead of irritating him, seemed to please him immensely. Their conversation eventually evolved to a very timid discussion, on John’s part, about Sherlock’s anatomy. John explained to Sherlock that if he was indeed going to be helping the Lord in his search for a cure then he would need to know the extent of his patient. Obviously.

He did not explain to Sherlock how the idea of closely inspecting every detail and facet of the man before him started a sensation of heat coiling low in his stomach, and how his heart pounded furiously in anticipation. It would be different than patching up a wounded shoulder or thigh. In this case he would be allowed to look and examine and explore, under the premise of medical curiosity.

When really, all he wanted was to touch the man.

Sherlock surprised him by pulling a wooden stool over to the the rug in front of the large fireplace. He stood before it and looked over to John, beckoning with a long fingered hand. John swallowed, daring to believe that Sherlock would actually acquiesce to his request, and unable to keep his jaw from popping open in surprise as those long, nimble claws began to tug the hem of his shirt out of his trousers.

“Come, doctor. I find myself curious as to your professional opinion.” Sherlock murmured, his voice deliciously low while his sharp, narrowed eyes fixed upon John’s face. Not trusting himself to speak, John merely nodded as he watched Sherlock pull his shirt over his head and let the pristine garment drop silently to the floor.

 


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, as promised! A real chapter this time. I worked on this all day yesterday and proof read it this morning so that I could get it out as soon as possible. 
> 
> At this point I would like to remind everyone that I do not have a beta, so all mistakes are my own. 
> 
> I would also like to say that I greatly appreciate all of the comments, they really do help. I feel a little rusty after having not written in so long, but your encouragement really helps me stretch these mental muscles. So thank you! Please feel free to leave me another and tell me how you feel about this chapter, and to rush me to finish the next one!
> 
> Enjoy!

John had, of course, seen Sherlock’s body unclothed so was not unsettled by his abrupt disrobing. Though he had never watched the man slowly remove his own clothes, with dim firelight flickering off of the many glass vials and jars, giving the air around them a shiny glow. He had never observed the raw look in his silver blue eyes as he purposefully bared himself, showing John all of his perceived flaws. He had never been _invited_ to touch him.

He moved forward slowly, dry mouthed, trying not to flex his fingers or wipe his suddenly sweaty palms on his own trousers as Sherlock pulled off his boots and sat on the stool, clad in only his trousers. He sat rigidly, his knotted spine straight and his hands placed atop his thighs as he watched John’s careful approach. He stopped just inches away from Sherlock’s taut shoulder, hands hesitating over the scaled skin of his neck.

“Are you quite sure?” He asked, out of concern for the man, not reluctance. Sherlock tilted his face up towards John’s, his lips were _so close_ , and gave one jerky nod.

That first touch, so unlike all the other times John had touched him, set the nerves in his fingertips on fire. He let his hand ghost over the scales over the back of Sherlock’s neck, feeling that they were indeed as hard as gemstones, and warm to the touch. Everything about the man radiated heat, from the lingering scorch of sensation left over in John’s fingers to the smouldering look in his eyes.

He continued to explore, running his hands over the spines on his skull, over the ridges down his spine and along his shoulders. He felt the bones underneath, which felt mostly human. There were some places where human skin remained, such as under his arms and a small area of his upper chest, and at the base of his throat, and of course, his face. The rest of his skin, from what John could see of the waist up, was covered in scales and spines of varying sizes. They were larger over the span of his back, and torso, where they were smaller around his face and neck.

Sherlock kept himself rigidly still during the inspection, to the point where John worried that he was causing him some kind of pain or at least intense discomfort.

“Would you like me to stop?” He eventually asked, standing just behind as he counted each sharp vertebrae. The answer was soft and hesitant, spreading a warm feeling throughout John’s stomach as he listened to that deep voice.

“No. It’s just… I’m unaccustomed to being touched. It just takes some getting used to. Continue.” He ordered softly. John almost stopped, but he went on.

He tugged gently at Sherlock’s arms, having him bend joints and turn certain ways while John observed the rolling muscle and bone under his skin. He felt the plates of his skull and took his pulse. He counted the beats of his heart and felt the pull of his lungs when he breathed. He seemed perfectly normal and healthy, despite the obvious.

“It seems that the only alterations to your body were on the outside, nothing to suggest your internal make up was changed in anyway.” John felt that he should mention the changes that he had witnessed, but since it appeared that Sherlock was unaware of them he thought maybe perhaps he shouldn’t. If Sherlock knew, he could start to over analyze his body and state of mind in an attempt to find the connection and reason for the changes, and John decided that maybe silent observation on his part would be a better way to go about it. Maybe he would be able to figure out the reason and inform him of it later.

It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he found the minute differences fascinating and had no wish for Sherlock to subject them to experiments and possibly ruin or halt them. Nothing at all.

“I suspected as much.” He murmured, in his deep baritone. John moved around to his front, stepping cautiously between Sherlock’s knees while placing his fingertips gently under that angular chin. He pulled Sherlock’s face up, extremely aware of the suggested intimacy of their position as he put his thumb just under the man’s lower lip to gently tug his mouth open. He had saved his inspection of the man’s teeth for last, for this reason alone.

Their bodies were close, closer than they had ever been. John could feel Sherlock’s inner thighs pressed against his own legs, their faces mere inches apart as Sherlock opened his mouth under John’s silent command. His silver eyes were wide, his pupils dilated with some surging emotion that John could not pinpoint. He knew his own eyes must mirror them, and he mentally swore that the man must be able to hear his heartbeat, pounding nervously as it was.

He could feel the quick huff of breath on his neck as Sherlock stilled, their gazes locked as John gently pried his mouth open to inspect his sharp teeth. They were human for the most part, with only slightly sharpened edges, particularly in his canines. He supposed that his teeth, like the rest of his body, changed depending on his mood. What emotion was raging inside him now, with his body tense and coiled, his eyes locked on John’s with what appeared to be reverence and amazement?

He wanted, no, _needed_ to know. Before he could change his mind or think better of the urge, John let his thumb stroke Sherlock’s chin softly, the barest gesture of intimate affection, and felt his breath stutter at the show of reaction on the man’s face. Pupils all but swallowing the shining iris’s, nostrils flaring, the barest leaning forward, into John’s tender touch. It was all the information he needed.

He leaned in, bringing their mouths close, giving Sherlock plenty of time to pull away as he hovered over him, thumb stroking his lower lip. Sherlock seemed frozen, locked in place by some intense emotion or inner struggle or invincible _desire_ , as John waited that last second before finally pressing their lips together.

And oh, the _heat_. Neither of them moved right away, but the warmth that spread up John’s legs, assaulting his groin relentlessly before moving on to devour his chest, neck and lips left him staggering for breath. The thud of his blood in his ears loud enough to drown out the cackling of the fire. Their lips moved against each other timidly, exploring each other, learning, and John had to sternly suffocate the groan that threatened to force it’s way out of his throat when he felt those full lips part hesitantly under his own.

With closed eyes, he brought one hand from Sherlock’s jaw to the back of his neck, running slow but eager fingers up to the back of his head, twisting in the man’s hair. His _hair_. With a shocked intake of air, John opened his eyes to see the curling, black locks resting messily over his head. He didn’t have long to linger in his surprise however, because Sherlock quickly took advantage of John’s open mouth, his first shy edginess forgotten.

Sharp teeth nipped at his lower lip, before a quick, wet tongue darted out to meet his own, a little messily. Long fingers slipped around his hips, with thumbs resting over his hipbones. He didn’t have to look to know that there was an amazing lack of claws at Sherlock’s fingertips. His hips jerked involuntarily, pushing into the touch. That hot, tantalizing tongue darted out again, this time lingering as it slid against his own. John caught it gently between his teeth, sucking it lightly before releasing it and moving his lips against Sherlock’s with a little more force.

It seemed that Sherlock simply _could not be touched enough_. John’s hands explored once again, but this time with more honest intent. He was intrigued by the sudden give to his skin, the lack of spines and sharp edges, his flesh smooth and devoid of gemlike scales. He couldn’t reach enough, didn’t have enough hands, couldn't press enough of himself against Sherlock’s body, and could not suck enough of the heat from his lips.

He wanted so badly to pull away for just a moment and inspect his new human appearance, but dared not in case he ruined the moment between them. He only pulled the man closer, pressing his chest closer to Sherlock’s collarbone, letting his hand pull at the man's hair, pushing his mouth open more fully so that John could devour him forcefully.

And Sherlock did not shy away at his suddenly demanding touch. On the contrary, he kissed harder, gripped his hips with more strength, surely leaving fingerprint shaped bruises. His hands roamed over John shamelessly, touching his stomach, his chest, up to his neck and down his back to grip his ass needily. John could no longer hold in the groan, it forced it’s way up his throat and out of his mouth, a raw, animalistic sound that he hadn’t known he was capable of.

He pulled away for just a moment, using his hold of Sherlock’s hair to hold him steady while their lips separated so that he could gulp down oxygen. He did not intend to stay away from those kiss swollen lips for long, but he paused when he felt Sherlock jerk his head out of John’s grip. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock pulling away from him, standing so quickly that the chair toppled to the stone floor loudly while his wide eyes stared at John in disbelief. His un-clawed hands rushed to his own head, feeling and tugging the hair that rested there instead of sharp spines. He looked so… _human_.  

John reached out to him, but Sherlock jerked away, backing up two steps to put distance between them even as he stumbled backwards into a table, bits of glass trembling dangerously at the contact. Even as John watched, he changed again. The skin of his jawline and neck darkened as the scales reappeared, his fingers lengthened sharpened into black claws, his hair turned to long spines that bristled agitatedly. And his face… _his face._

He mourned, that much was obvious. There was a depth to his raging emotions that John couldn’t understand, pain and loss that had built up for years and years, and John was helpless as he watched the agony deform Sherlock’s beautiful face and turn it to a mask of horrified realization. An answer, knowledge that he had been seeking, that was suddenly clear to him.

And that knowledge left him barren and hopeless.

John tried once again to reach out to him.

“Sherlock-” He began, but Sherlock merely jerked away from his outstretched hand, giving John a wide berth as he stepped around and practically fled from the room. John was left standing, staring at the open door, drowning in the confusion and despair that Sherlock had left in his wake.

* * *

**  
**  


The next morning found John having breakfast in his room, alone. He hadn’t seen Sherlock since their unfortunate parting, though not for lack of trying. Hours of searching had yielded no results, and John had eventually given up to return to his room, collapse in his bed and sleep fitfully before waking up early the next morning to a silver tray of poached eggs, bread, and fresh milk.

He stared dully at the fire as he ate, chewing methodically without tasting the food in his mouth. His mind was dull, wrung out like a overtaxed sponge. His worry for Sherlock predominated all thought, eating at him and leaving no room for any other occupation. He was so singularly focused, that a knock at the door had him choking on the bread in his mouth, scrambling to swallow and stand, his chair scraping across the stone floor loudly.

He held out a brief, wild hope that Sherlock had come to see him, that they would speak and all would be well. That John could listen to his worries, his fears and his pain, and help him through all that he suffered. That they would move tentatively forward, pursuing the spark that was obvious between them. But his hopes were crushed viciously when the door opened to reveal his visitor. Who was not Sherlock Holmes.

“Doctor Watson, I had hoped to find you here.” Mycroft Holmes offered, a sly smirk in place across the thin planes of his face. He strode casually into the room, as if he owned the estate, and perhaps the rest of the world as well.

“Mr. Holmes.” John merely replied, his eyes narrowed in suspicion as the man came to a stop a few feet away from his table.

“Come now Doctor, let’s have none of that. I only wanted to speak with you for a moment.” He said, his smile still fixed firmly in place.

“I thought you left yesterday.” John answered, looking back to his food. Mycroft eyed the chair opposite him and sat, smoothing the line of his trousers across his knee with an air of muted exasperation.

“I did. I returned this morning, as I had a few matters to attend to.” He replied, eyes John pointedly.

John allowed himself a moment to wonder how Mycroft traveled so quickly. From what John could tell, he did not live anywhere nearby. Could he change shape like his brother? Did he… _fly_ back and forth? Or did he travel by some other unnatural means? Sherlock had implied that he was not the only one altered by their argument all those years ago. What had happened to Mycroft?

John stared at him suspiciously, suddenly maddeningly curious.

“Well what do you want then?” He asked, frowning as he lowered himself back into his chair.

“I came… to request a favor of you.” Mycroft responded, adjusting his posture as he spoke. The words seemed to make him uncomfortable.

“A favor. From me.” John deadpanned.

“Yes.” Mycroft said, with a forced smile. “I’m sure I don’t need to mention the fragile state of my brother. I would like to request that you… look after him. He blatantly refuses my offers of familial companionship and I find it difficult to look after him when he keeps me at such a distance. I would happily be willing to compensate you for your assistance.” He finished delicately, keeping a discreetly sharp eye on John’s face.

“Are you… offering to pay me… to spy on your brother?” John asked, screwing up his face as the words tumbled out of his mouth.

“I am merely asking you to look after him, since he is unwilling to allow me to do so.” Mycroft replied, his tone careful. John gaped at him.

“I can’t believe you would think that you need to offer to _compensate_ me for that. You’re asking me to keep an eye on him and report back to you.” John accused, insulted.

“I made no such request.” Mycroft scowled.

“Not in so many words, no. But that’s what you meant.”

Mycroft sighed, his gaze resting on the ceiling as though praying for patience.

“John-”

“Doctor Watson.”

“Right. Doctor Watson. I am not trying to recruit you for some secret cause with the intent to undermine or betray Sherlock. I only wanted some kind of reassurance that you had his best interests at heart.” Mycroft offered, watching John from across the table.

“Why?” John questioned.

“Because he is my brother, and I worry about him. Constantly.”

John paused, lips pursed as they stared at each other. Mycroft's demeanor, snide and haughty, did little to reassure John of his sincerity.

“Not that it's any of your business, but I happen to genuinely like him and enjoy his company. If you can’t tell that by the fact that I am still here, even after how this all started, then you are not nearly as omniscient as you like to pretend.” Mycroft opened his mouth, affronted, but John continued. “Sherlock is not a child. He doesn’t need you hanging over his shoulder. You should just leave him, and me, be and stop trying to manipulate him and anyone around him.”

To John's surprise, Mycroft did not look at all offended by the end of his little speech. On the contrary, he appeared… amused. He was silent, his glittering eyes staring at John as though searching for weaknesses. John sat straight, staring right back, determined to show him none.

“They’re looking for you, you know.” He finally said, his voice soft. It was not the response John had expected.

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Mike Stamford, and a small group of others. They’ve already been to your… residence. They are in the woods every day, searching. They found your pistol.” John swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

Mike was looking for him? Would they search this far? Would they find the castle? John felt the blood drain from his face. What would he do if they did?

“Sherlock would certainly not take well to so many visitors at once. I’m sure you’re aware that he has a very antisocial and volatile temperament. He is even prone to… violence.” John stiffened as he watched Mycroft's eyes travel over his neck to the half exposed scarring caused by Sherlock’s bite. “Whatever would you do, who would you chose, if it came between Sherlock and your friends, I wonder?” John bristled at the implied threat.

“Sherlock has nothing to worry about from me.” John insisted, working to unclench his jaw. Mycroft smirked, tilting his head slightly to the side.

“You’re very loyal, very quickly, Doctor Watson. Instilled by your military service, perhaps? Or merely a natural trait?” Angry now, John kept his silence.

The entire conversation was leaving a rotten taste in his mouth, and just as he was deciding to put an end to it, there was movement in the doorway. John turned and gaped to find that he had yet another visitor, but this time it was an unfamiliar face.

He was a tall man, though not quite as tall as Mycroft, he still had a few inches of height over John. His dark eyes and salt and pepper hair were distinguishing, as was the easy way he held himself and the pleasant smile on his face. John immediately liked him, and his approval only rooted more firmly when the man spoke.   
“Uh, hello there. My name’s Greg, you’re John? Pleasure to meet you.” He said, holding out a friendly hand as he came to a stop near the table. John shook his head and nodded, smiling in turn. “Sorry to be so abrupt, but we’ve got a situation and we need to depart.” He said this last to Mycroft, and John watched as Mycroft heaved a heavy sigh and stood, unhurried.

Greg stood at his elbow, his gaze flickering to Mycroft, unseen by the elder Holmes. John found that extremely interesting.

“Well, Doctor Watson. I am sorry to leave so suddenly, but it appears I am being called away. I do hope we can speak again when I am able to return. Have a good day.” He offered, giving John a dry smile and nod before he turned, without a glance to Greg. Greg gave a small friendly wave and left, following close behind and shutting John’s door with a soft click.

John stared absently at the door for a long time. His outburst had been automatic, unplanned. Now that the elder Holmes was gone and John was alone, he found himself contemplating what he had said, and his intentions.

What _were_ his intentions?

He sighed, sitting in the high backed chair by the fire, his unfinished breakfast arranged in front of him, and decided to figure out exactly what it was he wanted, before he figured out how to go about getting it.

The idea of home, of his decaying cabin in the woods, filled him with a sense of loss and loneliness. No, that would not do. He knew that he wanted to be here, with Sherlock. He wanted to unravel the mystery that was Sherlock Holmes.

He also wanted unravel the lingering, tenuous thread that was their relationship. The kiss… John brought his fingers to his lips, remembering the evening before. The kiss had been nothing less than amazing. The way those plush lips had moved under his, the eager responses that Sherlock had displayed, his advance, so shy at first, had grown so demanding.

Oh yes, he most certainly wanted to stay and unravel _that._

But… was that what Sherlock wanted? John found himself unsure. He did know that Sherlock wanted to cure his condition. The condition that seemed to exacerbate when he was feeling angry or stressed, just as it seemed to diminish when he was calm or pleased or… excited. Thinking about it now, John found that incredibly telling. What if Sherlock's curse wasn’t tied to his biology, but his emotional state? The state of his heart.

What if the way to cure Sherlock… was to simply make him happy.

John lingered in the dying light of the fire, exploring his theory from different angles, reevaluating different situations in his head. The more he thought of it, the more it seemed to fit.

Sherlock, agitated and on guard, threatened by an unknown person invading his home, of whose intentions he was unaware, showing himself to be defensive and standoffish, his form worsened.

Sherlock, depressed and alone, hiding away in a distant part of the castle, in his most extreme form, in that of a dragon.

Sherlock, at dinner, his features softened and tolerate, patiently answering questions and attempting to share his life with someone for what was likely the first time.

Sherlock sitting on a simple stool in the firelight, surrounding by orange glowing glass, devouring John's mouth, appearing… so human. So fragile.

And finally, Sherlock, upon discovering the trigger to his condition, discovering how uncontrollable it was after all, hardening with despair, fleeing to to some unknown corner of his hated existence, unable to come to terms with his fate.

Well. John could fix that. He was a doctor after all.

With this new knowledge and determination in mind, John stood, ignoring his remaining food to stride confidently out of his room in search of Sherlock. It seemed that, now armed with his new conviction, Sherlock would simply appear before him. He walked, through halls and staircases, through vast libraries. He searched, the dining hall, even Sherlock's lab, which he found cold and empty.

For hours he looked, only to find no sign of the man. His newfound confidence wavered as the hours went by, until at last he came to that familiar windowed landing to find the moon high and bright in the sky, the world dark and silent around him. Dismayed, he finally went up to bed, resigned to continue his search the following morning.

* * *

However, the next day wielded nothing. As did the day after. John was becoming worried and desperate, feeling that he was walking the same floors over and over, from one end of the estate to the next. He even searched outside, discovering a bright, surprisingly warm greenhouse filled with lush green plants that John was sure were not supposed to flourish so late in the year. He came upon an observatory, with a clear glass roof and full of instruments that John had no name for, and books in languages that he could not read.

His hours of searching left him confused and exhausted, missing Sherlock so fiercely that his chest physically ached for him. His fingers twitched upon remembering the feeling of thick dark hair, the soft skin of his neck, the heat of his thighs. His voice echoing through John's thoughts, his eagerness as he explained the art of alchemy, his subdued murmur as he beckoned John closer, even his incised angry growl. John wanted all of it.

And it was nowhere to be found.

He went to bed again on the second night, forlorn and miserable, lying awake for hours, his body stiff and hot as he thought of Sherlock, alone with his anguish. It took hours for sleep to claim him, only for him to dream dark things, things that left him jolting up in bed, gasping, with hot tears falling down his face.

It was upon one of these wakings that he heard it. The violin.

John jumped violently out of bed, leaving his shirt and boots behind in his haste to find the source of the sound. Its voice echoed through the halls, almost impossible to detect from which direction it originated. After many failed attempts, John finally felt himself getting nearer, the agonizing plea from the violin begging him closer.

The music was louder now, as he stepped quietly down a hall that felt vaguely familiar. John squinted in the near darkness, halting with no small amount of panic when his foot collided with something white, and cold. A shard of marble. The white bust lay scattered on the floor in front of him.  

Of _course._

The door to the room where John first saw Sherlock as a dragon was closed this time, but the cry of the violin was unmistakably coming from inside. John inhaled deeply, a silent prayer, before stepping carefully around the broken marble to grip the cold metal of the handle and push the door open once again.

****


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try for one chapter a week, it'll probably be posted around Monday. I've got the rest of this story worked out so all I have to do is find the time to write it! Since I am pulling from The Beauty and the Beast, to those of you who are familiar with it if there is anything that you would like to see done with this story in relation to that one -or just anything in general that you would enjoy- let me know! I'd be happy to oblige and work it in if I can. 
> 
> Also, if any of you awesome readers are artists and feel up to doing a drawing for this story I would LOVE to hear from you. 
> 
> Enjoy! And please remember that I am my own beta. All mistakes are my fault. 
> 
> Comments and kudos appreciated. <3

The room was just as he remembered, cold and dark, darker still as it was night and not midday. The heavy red drapes appeared black in the limited light, the floor a minefield of broken bits of furniture and glass. John took in these details and pushed them aside, searching for the source of the music. He could make out the tall shape on the balcony, swaying in the wind, overlooking the crumbled bits of black iron that previously made up the railing.

Sherlock, facing away from John as he stood erect and silent, the wind and flurries of snow whipping around him as he lost himself in the plea of the music. John, with military precision, stepped quietly around the treacherous floor until he was just inside the glass doors, watching from mere feet away. Sherlock's form was soft, the spines over his head almost blowing around as easily as his clothing, his hands normal and nearly delicate, working the instrument in his slender fingers.

John remained still, watching and listening, learning what he could from this rare display. He was absorbed, enraptured, until he realized the state of Sherlock's dress. His feet were bare, nearly covered in snow, his white sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he worked his arms over the violin, his shoulders damp from melted drops. He must have been freezing.

The doctor in John was unable to watch any longer, he licked his lips, his hand reaching out as he prepared to speak. The words never came, as Sherlock ceased playing and whipped around, body taut with the realization that he was no longer alone.

“What are you doing here?!” He demanded, his body hardening before John's very eyes. He ached at the sight of it. He opened his mouth to speak again, but the bow in Sherlock's hand snapped abruptly as his clawed hand grew too expansive to hold the delicate piece. Alarmed, Sherlock turned suddenly to his violin, the desperate look on his face more than enough to spur John into action.

He stepped forward, taking hold of the instrument and prying it gently but firmly away from Sherlock's hand before it could become damaged. John held it delicately, preparing for the tirade he could see plainly forming in the set of Sherlock's mouth.

“You play beautifully. Has anyone ever told you?” He interrupted before Sherlock's mood could escalate too far. His words had the desired effect, Sherlock's body stilled, eyes raking over John's expression as though searching for deceit. “I’ve been trying to find you for days. I should have known you’d be here.”

“You’re not supposed to come here.” Sherlock protested again, though this time much more subdued. John gave him a small smile.

“Come inside. You’re going to catch your death out there.” John held out his empty hand, his posture relaxed and open, silently fearful that Sherlock would refuse.

He did not. He hesitated, then stepped into the dark room and let John close the glass door behind him. The wind still howled openly through the broken glass, but he paid no mind.

“Do you have lamps? A blanket?” He asked. Sherlock frowned and pointed silently to a cracked dresser on the other side of the room. John nodded, setting the violin in an empty case that lay on an intact table as he passed.

There were some pieces of furniture that were unbroken. A couple of chairs, the table, an iron music stand with sheets of paper scattered around it. John found an oil lamp in the mess of items on the dresser and managed to light it, carrying it over to the table and setting it next to the violin case. Upon further search, he pulled a blanket off of the floor and shook shards of glass out of it before folding it over his arm and approaching Sherlock again. He stood silent and unmoving in front of the glass door, broken bow still clutched in his clawed hand, wary eyes watching John.

“Sit, please.” John requested gently, gesturing to one of the chairs. Sherlock tossed the bow onto the floor with the other rubbish and obeyed yet again, watching John as though he was a dangerous animal, an amusing thought, under the circumstances. John smiled again as he lowered himself into the chair, allowing John to drape the blanket over him. The single lamp did not provide much light, but it was enough that John could make out his expressions. He pulled the remaining chair closer, close enough that if Sherlock stretched out one of his legs he could have rested his ice cold feet into John's lap. He smiled again at the thought before sitting down.

“I’m surprised at your courage, coming here after what happened last time. I did not expect that you would.” Sherlock said, his voice low and careful as he watched John make himself comfortable.

“I am not an easily frightened man Sherlock, believe it or not. Your extreme circumstances have been an exception. I also feel that we… know each other better now. I don’t believe that you would hurt me intentionally.” John tried delicately, watching Sherlock’s face.

“Intentionally.” Sherlock repeated, monotone.

“Yes, intentionally.” John nodded, allowing a moment of silence to grow between them before continuing. “Sherlock… I know you’re not used to… having other people around.” He began, the words uncomfortable on his tongue. “But I told you I wanted to stay and help you. I meant that. In… in whatever way I can. It doesn’t have to be… anything you’re uncomfortable with.” He forced the words out, hating them as they fell off of his tongue.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, watching intently as John struggled to continue.

“I just wanted you to know that. That I’ll be here, however I can. If you want. If not… I can go.” He finished, hoping against everything he had ever known that he had not misread the man and that his assurance wasn’t needed. He waited, his heart thudding painfully as Sherlock considered his words.

“I never wished for you to leave.” Sherlock replied quietly. John let out a heavy breath.

“Good. Thats… good.” He let out a weak smile, receiving the barest tug of Sherlock's lips in return. They remained in silence for a few more moments, John allowing his heart to return to its proper size, before he carried on.

“I’ve been thinking about your… condition.” He began calmly, watching as Sherlock's shoulders tensed under the blanket. “And after some observation and reflection I’ve come up with a theory.”

“Indeed?” He responded, the barest hint of intrigue now. John nodded.

“Sherlock. What makes you happy?” He asked, studying the man's face as his brow came together in obvious confusion.

“I... “ He paused, a frown gracing his angled features. “I don’t know.” He answered finally.

Though it was somewhat expected, John's heart clenched painfully at his answer.

“What made you happy before?” He asked gently. Sherlock looked away, his eyes unfocused as he considered the question.

“My work, I suppose. But now… nothing I do seems to yield successful results. Its as if this…” He made a vague gesture at himself, “has ruined that as well.”

John nodded, thoughtful. The chilled air from the broken window blew across his bare chest and feet, setting his flesh alight with goosebumps. He watched absently as the drapes swayed gently with the breeze, papers dancing across the floor. The heat from the lamp did little to warm his skin. The heat of Sherlock's gaze, however, was an entirely different matter.

He could feel those piercing eyes upon him as he watched the snow fall onto the balcony outside. John knew that for a man who was used to his solitude, the presence of another, as well as the attention he had been receiving, must be more than a little overwhelming. Perhaps Sherlock needed time to adjust, time to realize that his life was changing, time to understand and become comfortable with the fact that John was staying put for the foreseeable future.

His flight from the lab was understandable, once John analyzed his actions from this point of view. So much stimulation so fast, and they barely knew each other after all. If his condition was indeed tied to his emotional state as he suspected, then what Sherlock needed was to… learn to trust John. To enjoy being around him.

That other word, the stronger one, the more permanent one that he had never applied to another living person besides his sister, lingered in the back of his mind. No, John wouldn’t even think of it. ...would he?

After his initial inner crisis about Sherlock's gender and Johns persistent attraction to him, he hadn’t given the matter much more thought, assuming that it was better accept the fact that they were both men under the comforting knowledge that they were here alone without the eyes of others who would judge them.

To engage in a physical relationship with another man was one thing. To have such a relationship with Sherlock under the basis of friendship and companionship, with the intent to cure him of his condition through such a relationship was one thing. But… now that he was really considering it with all conscious thought, it was a ridiculous idea. What would happen if, no, _when_ he was cured? Would John be able to just end it under the idea that he had accomplished his goal? Would he just… leave?

More importantly… would Sherlock want him to?

John’s heart stuttered at the thought. Once again, Sherlock's desires were unknown to him. His need to be human again, to have his life once again under his own control was obvious, but once he gained that? What would he desire then? To be alone once more? Or would he want John to stay?

John found himself glancing over at the man in question, feeling his chest tighten when their eyes met. Those eyes, those beautiful, frightening eyes, were locked on him with an intensity that froze the breath in his lungs. Silver iris’s flashing, narrowed over a long nose and pursed lips, and it was the most exquisite face that John had ever seen. Never had he felt such _want_ for a woman.

As strange as it sounded, Sherlock's desires did not matter to John.

He would stay, he would do whatever it took to help the man who drew him like oxygen to a drowning man. Because that's what John was, a drowning man. Drowning in his need to be around Sherlock Holmes. He would do anything, everything, to stay and unravel this man. He wanted to see what made him smile, what made him laugh and weep, what made his face light up with delight and crumble with sorrow. What made him shiver with anticipation or reckless with determination. What made him look at John with that expression on his perfect face.

“What are you thinking?” He found himself asking, his voice low with barely controlled emotion.

“I was considering you, actually. Your reasons for staying are a mystery to me. I am baffled by your continued existence here, John. Any other man would have left long ago. I don’t know why you haven’t. I don’t like not knowing.” He finished, his lips pursed with an almost petulant expression. John found it endearing.

“I am a doctor Sherlock. I help people. I want to help you.” He answered, feeling that response was safer than the more volatile reasons banging around in his head.

“And a soldier. An army doctor. A man with a penchant for healing, as well as danger. Perhaps your reasons shouldn’t seem so strange after all.” He added, with a small smile.

“Yes, about that actually, how did you know? I never told you I was a doctor. I never told you that I was in the army either.” He asked, leaning forward now with interest.

“That, my dear man, is an excellent question. Allow me to illuminate.” Upon finishing his statement, Sherlock leaned forward as well, putting their faces closer as his eyes shone, alight with some excitement John didn’t understand. He continued; “Firstly, your stance. While walking your favor your right leg, obviously a psychosomatic injury as you distribute your weight on both legs equally for whilst standing. Also, while standing, you stand at rest, spine straight and chin up, hands clasped behind your back, a habit ingrained upon years of military training and experience. Secondly, your coloring. You hands, neck and face are tanned, the skin above your wrists and below your collar line are not, suggesting that you’ve been in a warmer climate. Probably overseas, you’re also more sensitive to the cold than you’d like, judging by the way you are adamantly ignoring its obvious assault on your person at this moment in time.” John internally flinched, putting forth a great effort to not glance down at his chest which was at this point, freezing.

“Furthermore, your medical knowledge is quite apparent. I could have easily guessed from your choices of reading material during the days you spent exploring the estate, or the way that you tended to your wounds, and mine, with such obvious skill. To be honest though, it was immediately apparent to me that you were a doctor just by observing your hands.”

John, taken aback and unsure which bit of information he should attack first, teetered between the indignation of being spied upon and the intense curiosity of _how_ Sherlock could judge his occupation correctly just by looking at his _hands._

“My hands?” He finally gasped.

“Yes, John, your hands. Strong, well formed hands with calluses in appropriate places, plenty of experience holding a needle or scalpel. You unconsciously favor your hands, you are careful of them, knowing that a doctor without the full use of his hands is worse than useless. Your fingers move with surety, intimately familiar with human anatomy, as was easily apparent when I watched you run your fingers over the inflamed juncture of your neck where I bit you. A doctor's hands.” He finished, his voice had gone quiet towards the end. If John knew him better, he would wonder if that wistfulness was tinged with regret.

John sat back with a huff, hating the way the back of the chair had gone cold in his absence. He stared at the man before him, even more impressed now than before, at the discovery of this incredible hidden talent.

“That was… amazing. Simply amazing.” The quirk of Sherlock’s lip told John that he was immensely pleased with the compliment.

“Observation is second nature with me.” He replied, waving the praise away.

John merely smiled, letting his gaze rest on his ever surprising companion. His original observation had been that Sherlock was an intelligent man. But he wasn’t merely intelligent, he was bloody brilliant. It was amazing, truly. With every new piece of personality that John discovered, he became even more fascinated.

“You were saying, John, that you had a theory.” Sherlock said, interrupting John’s thoughts.

“Ah, yes, well. I don’t think that you’ll be able to cure your condition using tinctures or tonics from your lab. I don’t think its that simple.” He answered delicately.

“Simple! What I do in that room is _far_ from simple! There are endless equations to be considered, formulas that-”

“That’s not what I mean Sherlock, listen to me.” John interrupted, his voice stern. It was his captain's voice, the voice he used for difficult patients and lower ranked soldiers. The effect was immediate.

Sherlock’s teeth came together with an audible snap, his nostrils flared as he sat straight and rigid, pressed against the back of the chair. His expression was that of indignant surprise and… something else that John could not name.

“What I meant, what I was trying to say, is that I think your condition is connected to your emotional state.” He explained, somewhat gently. Sherlock remained silent, thoughts flickering across his face too fast for John to deduce. John let him think it over patiently, absently rubbing his feet together in an attempt to generate some warmth. The room seemed to be growing colder now, the invading air permeating his skin and causing a tremor. His hands shook, he rubbed them along his thighs to hide the trembling and to warm himself. The movement did not go unnoticed.

Sherlock stood in one swift movement, removing the blanket from his shoulders.

“That is an interesting theory John, and I will be sure to think on it. In the meantime, go to bed. Sleep, be warm. I’m sure we will talk again soon.” John nodded and stood, reluctant to leave, but unable to stay. The bones in his knees cracked loudly and he grimaced, shivering more violently as he left the warmth of the chair.

Sherlock took a stiff step forward and wrapped the blanket around John’s shoulders. It was still warm from his body. Feeling a little wide-eyed, John smiled and nodded his thanks.

“I’ll come looking for your tomorrow. I won’t hesitate to come here if I have to.” He warned, trying to sound stern but betrayed by the shivering in his jaw.

“I dare say you won’t have to look this far. Good night, John.”

“Good night, Sherlock.”

* * *

After a warm bath, a good night's sleep, and a hearty breakfast, John was ready to search the entire estate from top to bottom for his host. He was appropriately surprised then, to find Sherlock standing motionless on the landing down the stairs, gazing absently out of the glass wall. He was dressed in his usual black leather and crisp, white shirt, strings untied. The spines of his head were sharp but lax, his posture straight but liquid. He turned easily to greet John, with a small smile on his lips.

“Good morning. I trust you slept well?” He inquired, warmth in his tone.

“I slept perfectly fine, thank you. I’m afraid I’ve become rather spoiled, the comforts of your home are greatly superior to the comforts of mine.” John responded, trying to smother his immense pleasure at Sherlock's appearance. Waiting on him. Sherlock had been waiting.

“We aim to please. Come, I’ve something to show you.” Sherlock commanded, leading John along down a hall. “I reflected upon what you said, and I’ve come to the decision that whether or not you are correct, for I’m not sure that you are, it is worth a try. I will attempt to monitor my emotional state and observe the changes in my body as my sentiments fluctuate. I will need your help, it seems that I am largely unaware of my body changing. I know that it happens, but I find it difficult to actively focus on it. This is where you come in, doctor. You are to observe so that you may help me formulate concrete facts to support or dismiss your claim. Are you agreeable?” He inquired at the end, glancing over at John as he walked.

“Yes, yes of course. I would be happy to.” John answered, trying to discreetly read between the lines of Sherlock's words.  

He couldn’t help but feel the disappointment that the clinical tone of Sherlock's words caused in him. This was what he had wanted of course, to help Sherlock in any way he could. Sherlock's approach seemed so scientifical, devoid of any of the emotion John had invested, however recklessly, into the situation. John smiled sadly to himself, supposing that his host’s attitude should have been expected. He was a scientific man after all, unused to the attentions of others, no matter their tone. Even if he had wanted to reciprocate, John wasn’t entirely sure he would know how.

“Excellent. We shall start today, here.” They had come to a set of doors that John did not recognize, and Sherlock threw them open with great energy. Beyond was a massive, brilliantly lit room that John had indeed never seen, though he had been positive that he had already explored every inch of the castle.

He could not help but gape, taking two hesitant steps forward and leaving his companion at the door. It was a beautiful ballroom, with a stretch of empty floor and lit by more than twenty crystal chandeliers, the largest occupying the center of the ceiling with such grandness that John could not help but stare. It was yards across, and sparkled so brilliantly that he would have thought it was made of diamonds instead. Clear tear shaped drops of crystal hung motionless from its many arms, firelight glinting off their surfaces.

The room was circular and large enough for hundreds of guests, the white and gold patterned stone floor shone as if it had never seen the scuff of a boot, or the scratch of a heel. Two sets of grand stairs circled up each side of the room in front of him, leading to an iron gated balcony that overlooked the floor, with floor to ceiling glass windows beyond, no doubt offering a stunning view of the courtyard outside. Multiple arches with elegant crown molding ran the length of the walls, golden threads circling and outlining the massive oval mirrors set into each one. John had never seen a room so grand.

“Are you planning a party?” John asked, trying for a light tone. The effort rewarded him by forcing his voice out light and breathy.

“Not quite, no. But I’ve been thinking about what you asked me, about what made me happy.” Sherlock's tone was low, murmuring. John turned to look at him, suddenly finding his enigmatic host much more interesting than the room. His spines lay flat against his head, hands clasped behind his back and his face tilted down, eyes glancing up at John. “I enjoy, ah- used to enjoy, dancing. I was very good at it.” He answered, almost shy.

John, stared, mouth slightly agape like a proper idiot. He had absolutely not expected _that._ Was Sherlock asking him to dance? Or was he merely making an effort to answer Johns question? No, he was acting too coy for it to be something so innocent. He was trying to say that he would like to dance with John, surely? Internally panicking and afraid to make a false assumption and make a fool of himself, John hastened to respond.

“I see. I was never very good I’m afraid. Even less so now.” John smiled, but it felt like more of a grimace on his face. He shifted his stance, a dull throb shooting up his leg as he did so. He felt suddenly self-conscious, aware that Sherlock thought his pain to be psychosomatic. The feeling only increased when he saw Sherlocks eyes dart down to the leg in question.

“One is never too old to learn. Perhaps one day soon, when your leg is feeling less troublesome.” Sherlock responded, turning his face away to glance wistfully around the room. That was definitely an invitation, John was positive.

“I fear that I’ll only embarrass myself, but I would be more than happy to try.” He answered, sincere. Sherlock merely smiled before silently leading him back out of the room.

**  
  
**

Hours passed, in which Sherlock and John strolled leisurely around the castle. They spoke of many things, of Sherlock's work and accomplishments, of his skill with a violin, of his childhood exploits growing up in such an estate. They also spoke of John’s past and military career, of his family. Sherlock was very inquisitive, he asked question after question, never satisfied. John was, while amazed at the never stopping inquiries, simultaneously amazed at how much Sherlock just seemed to _know._

He had known that John had dog as a child. He had known that his parents had both passed, and that his sister had a difficult relationship with alcohol. When asked how he knew these things, because _honestly_ , Sherlock would grin madly and launch into a miraculous explanation of how a misplaced statement made weeks ago, or the shape of a scar on his ankle, or merely an expression on his face made at the right moment. John was amazed each and every time, and made it quite clear, which only seemed to excite and encourage the man. As a result, he was immensely pleased to notice, his ever changing anatomy would follow these emotions like the tide follows the moon.

The sharp edges of his shoulders would soften, become rounded and expressive. His face remained more human in shape, the scales around his jaw and neck were small and pliant, unobstructive and overshadowed by the beautiful pale flesh surrounding it. The spines over his head remained short and unagitated, his claws could have passed for dark, unattended fingernails. Then a small remark or surfaced memory would set his features to sharpening, a mention of Mycroft would put a scowl on his face, the subtle rustling of his scales would tighten John’s chest.

But his form never shifted towards the more monstrous shape that he had in those first days John had seen him. His voice, though rich and deep, never possessed the growling undertone that had set John’s heart pounding in fear. It was progress.

Sherlock showed him many rooms, most of them ones that John had already seen. They dined with a late lunch together in the great hall, then spent hours exploring the atrium that he had seen briefly before. Sherlock took great pleasure in explaining the many instruments and their purposes. He pulled dusty books off of the shelves, reading their words in latin aloud to John before translating. He showed star charts and illustrations of things so far away that John had never considered.

Late in the evening, when day gave into night, he demonstrated how to use the telescope, and John looked upon the surface of the moon for the first time. He saw far away stars and watched Sherlock trace constellations in the air with his fingers, and gazed with admiration upon the face of such a man who loved science and knowledge and exploration with such a childlike fascination.

He stubbornly smothered his ache, his fear that too soon, this would all be over.

It was late into the night when Sherlock broached the subject of their time together. They were strolling down a hall lowly light by oil lamps, the fires flickering off of Sherlock’s spines and scales, shining with a darker purpose. It had been a long day, but John was alert and attentive, starstruck by Sherlock’s brilliance. It had been amazing.

“John, I wanted to ask… Did you notice anything? Did anything change?” Sherlock’s deep voice sounded intimate in the low light, shy and hesitant in a way that send other meanings jolting through John’s mind. At first he thought Sherlock meant him, his growing affection, he feared he hadn’t hidden it well enough and Sherlock had noticed. After a moment's stunned pause, he realized that wasn’t what Sherlock had meant at all, and let out a heavy breath of relief before he struggled to answer.

“I did, actually. It seemed that you were having a good time, you’ve been much more… human.” He answered, glancing over at Sherlock as they walked.

“I was, John, I… Today has been wonderful. Thank you.” Sherlock had stopped walking and stood still, facing John with his hands clasped tightly in front of him. His scaled knuckles protruding as his fingers tugged at each other. John absently noted that they were in his hall, a few yards from his door.

“You don’t need to thank me. I mean, well.” He ran a hand across the back of his neck. “I had a good day too. So.” He put his hands behind his back and straightened, chin up as they watched each other.

“I would like to see you again tomorrow. Perhaps we could spend some time outside, the snow has stopped and the sky looks to be clear. You’ve been… confined to the castle for so long.” He finished, moving swiftly around the mention of John’s imprisonment. John pressed his lips together, worried that Sherlock may misinterpret his smile.

“That sounds lovely Sherlock.” He said quietly, struck with the urge to stride forward and kiss those bow lips.

  
“Excellent. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Goodnight.” Sherlock murmured, nodding his head once before turning and striding away with purpose. John watched him walk away, regretting his sudden departure. He kept watching until he turned at the end of the hall and was out of John's sight. Sherlock never looked back.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I was supposed to post by Monday, so sorry! (Especially to you, Devi-heart, who was kind enough to send me a comment email and urge me to post) I had some trouble with this chapter, I'm not sure why. I also had family over for two days and that didn't help my concentration at all. But here it is, and I'm sorry again for being late.
> 
> I am going to go ahead and delete the interlude authors note now.

“But how, Sherlock? I simply can not see how it is possible.” John smiled, shaking his head.

“How is anything possible John? How does the earth revolve around the sun? How do the birds know which direction to fly in the winter? How do we create life from the simple combination of two important cells? It’s science, John. I’ve merely figured out how to apply my knowledge and skill to achieve a certain desired result.”

“Well yes, but _unlimited_ life? _Really_ , Sherlock. That’s just impossible.” He replied, certain that Sherlock must be mistaken somehow. As a doctor, he found the idea completely unbelieveable.

“No, John, listen. It isn’t difficult to isolate the component responsible for cell aging and alter it. I have done it. Why, look at me. I should be proof enough. It is amazing what our bodies are capable of, if only we know how to push them into the state we want.”

“But mistakes are possible. Things can go wrong.”

“Yes. Obviously.” A grimace. “But mistakes can be corrected, with the right attitude and… in specific cases, the right assistance. What I’m trying to say John, is that if you could stay just as you are, without any further aging, if you could remain in this world for as long as you wanted instead of your body taking its natural course, would you want to?” Sherlock had stopped walking, forcing John to stop and turn to look at him. His eyes were intent upon John’s face, as though John’s answer to his question was exponentially important. John paused to really think about it.

“I’m… honestly not quite sure. Unlimited life wouldn’t hold much appeal to me. Why should it? To live forever in my tiny cabin, with only my memories to keep me company at night? No, Sherlock, I wouldn’t. Living forever wouldn’t make anyone happy, I think. Not unless... “ He cleared his throat and continued; “Not unless you had someone special to share it with.”  

“I see. So it isn’t living that would bother you, it's living alone.” He made the statement into an almost question as he continued walking slowly, letting John fall in beside him.

“Yes, I suppose that is true. Can you honestly say you’ve been happy, cooped up here all alone?” He asked, looking over at Sherlock as they walked beside each other, close enough that their arms brushed occasionally.

“I have been content.” He hesitated before continuing. “But it would be dishonest of me to say that I have not found more meaning in my existance since you came to be here.” He murmured. John inhaled deeply, his heart racing at the comment, which could have meant anything other than what John hoped it meant. He was saved the trouble of responding as Sherlock continued before he could speak. “But enough on that. I have something else to show you today.”

Sherlock led John through the massive doors and out into the courtyard beyond. It was a beautiful day, blue and bright and cloudless. The sun was warm on his face, but he rubbed his hands together to keep them from becoming stiff, blowing hot air into his enclosed fingers. He followed Sherlock down the stone steps, careful of where he placed his feet as to not slip on the ice. The gardens stretched out before them, with neatly trimmed hedges, fruit trees, stone furniture, and beautiful fountains covered in shards of ice. Snow covered everything, creating the most beautiful winter wonderland John had ever seen.

In the center was a massive old oak, its branches bare as it waited, patient and motionless, for the spring. John longed to see it all when it was green and alive, thriving and warm. He briefly wondered if he would have the chance.

“This way, John.” Sherlock said softly, watching John take it all in. His face was paler, his already translucent skin bleached by the brightness of the snow. His red scales held and almost silver shine, the blue of of his eyes so light they resembled ice. John swallowed, thinking once again that Sherlock was simply the most beautiful person that John had ever seen.

“Right, yes. I’m coming.” He responded, following him down a stone path. They came upon another tree, this one also bare, but with a curious shape hanging from one of its lower branches. Upon closer inspection, John realized that it was a beehive.

It was almost oval in shape, egglike, and looked to be made of mud sculpted together. John warily stepped closer, narrowing his eyes in amazement at the construction. A low buzzing could be heard from inside, which alarmed John. He stepped back quickly, looking to Sherlock.

“They’re in there!” He said, pointing to the hive.

“Well yes, John, of course they are. When the temperature drops, all bee’s retreat to the hive and form a cluster around their queen. They continuously shiver throughout the winter, hence the buzzing you hear, and take shifts to keep the queen and the center of the hive warm. Fascinating creatures, really, bees.” Sherlock said, an almost affectionate tone to his deep voice.

“So this is another thing you did, that you enjoyed? You kept bees?” John inquired, looking from Sherlock to the hive.

“Yes. I’ve always found them interesting. After my… transformation it became difficult. They no longer trusted me. It took a while but I managed to convince them that I meant them no harm. In the spring they’re wonderful, I can sit out here for hours, just watching them.” He said wistfully, eyes glazing over as though seeing hundreds of tiny insects buzzing through the air.

John had heard of men keeping dogs and cats, but never bees. Of course Sherlock Holmes would simply not be satisfied with something so mundane as a dog or cat.

“Have you ever been stung?” He asked.

“Oh yes, of course. More so in the beginning, not in a long while now.” He answered, smiling down at John.

“What is it made out of?” He asked, looking back at the hive. The shape of it was intriguing.

“Wax. They chew tiny bits of wax in their mouths and use it to form the hive. An interesting process.”

“Huh. That is amazing. Do they- well have you ever had honey from them?”

“Yes, on occasion. Not in the winter, as they need all of their reserves for the energy to keep shivering and to keep their queen warm. But sometimes, in the spring and summer. It’s delicious.”

“I bet it is. I’ve only had honey twice in my life, and never fresh from a hive like this.”

“I would be happy to share it with you, once the air is warm enough for them to start pollinating and producing more.”

John looked over to Sherlock’s face, his stomach fluttering uncomfortably as the words registered. It was the first time either of them had made any mention of the future besides what was immediate and important. Did Sherlock expect it to take that long to cure his condition? Or did he mean that he wanted John to still be around, regardless? Impossible to say. Either way, John was delighted.

“That would be lovely. I look forward to it.” He smiled at Sherlock, allowing his pleasure to show through. No doubt the man picked up on it, if the tug at his lips and deep movement of his chest was anything to go by.

“Come, I have something else to show you.” The man said, leading John away from the hive.

They returned to the large oak, moving towards a pale grey stone table placed under it. In the spring or summer it would be conveniently shaded, but the sun shone upon it through the bare branches, offering much appreciated warmth. There was a nice lunch laid out on the table, that had definitely not been there before.

“Sherlock, where did this come from?” John asked, glancing over at the castle but seeing no one.

“Sit John, and I will explain it to you.” Sherlock said, gesturing at the stone bench that curved around one side of the table. So John sat, looking over the fantastic food while he waited. There was bread, eggs, berries and fruits, cold meats, beans and much more. It was more than enough for two people, as seemed to be the norm whenever he and Sherlock would dine together.

John reached for the tea pot, gratified to find the tea hot and steaming as he poured himself a cup.

“As I told you, when I cursed myself my castle and its occupants were cursed along with me. It was a cruel thing, for as badly off as I seem, the effect on them was much worse.” He said, picking at the food instead of eating it. His demeanor had changed, he seemed subdued and distant. John watched him closely, observing the subtle bristling of his spines and the rustling of his scales.

“My curse was to live with this, alone. To suffer through my transformation and to have no one to take out this rage on, to internalize my hate and loathing and disgust. Perhaps it was smart in a way, safer for them. They would have most surely suffered from my volatile temperament, but still… it was cruel.” He said, his voice soft.

“What happened to them?” John inquired, gently urging him on.

“They are the castle. They have no bodies, but the castle is alive with their presence, their influence. The castle takes care of itself John. It is alive, filled with hundreds of silent voices and urges. The lamps light themselves. The floors clean and shine themselves. The food prepares itself, as if the ghosts of all of those people move silently and invisibly through the halls. I am never alone, yet I am always alone.”

John was still, eyes wide in disbelief and also a little… fear.

“How could such a thing be possible? Are you sure?” He asked, breathless.

“Quite sure, yes. My, ah, head in staff is a woman by the name of Mrs. Hudson. She was sure to let me know in very… creative ways.” He smiled humorlessly, tense and strained.

“Sherlock thats... “ He swallowed, his voice strained. “Thats just horrible. We must help these people!” He urged. Sherlock's condition was one thing but this! “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” He demanded.

“And how would you have reacted John?” Sherlock asked in turn, his voice stern and grating. John could see the protrusion of his canines sharp and dangerously present. He felt a twinge in his neck. “Would you have believed me? Would you have thought I was mad and run at the first opportunity? Honestly! How would you have reacted! You can not think to tell me that it would have been favorably!” Sherlock bit out, his voice rising.

“Alright, alright Sherlock just… alright. Its okay. I see your point. You’re right. I’m sorry.” He amended, consoling. Sherlock's spines had risen, like hackles bristling. “This doesn’t change anything.” He said, hoping to reassure Sherlock. “I’m not going anywhere. This just means that I’m not only helping you, but all the others too.”

Sherlock sighed, looking away. John glanced in the direction of his gaze, seeing the empty castle looming over them. He suppressed a shiver, trying not to analyze every time the _house_ had assisted him, whether it be food or clothes or a bath. Did it know of their kiss? Was it that aware? He didn’t want to think about it.

“Eat something please? You never eat enough. Not that I see, anyway.” He said, keeping his voice light as he determinedly started piling bits of various things on his plate. Sherlock acquiesced, putting a bit of cheese into his mouth and chewing mechanically, watching John do the same.

They ate in silence for a while, enjoying the fresh, crisp air and listened to the sounds of the birds in the trees. His companion was still tense, but growing more at ease as the minutes went by. It was when John was absently watching a Sparrow sing from a branch of the great oak when the idea came to him.

“Sherlock, do you have any seed? Bird seed?” He asked, looking over at his companion.

“Possibly. In the greenhouse. But these birds haven’t been fed seed in a long time, I doubt you could convince them to come close enough.” He replied, following John’s gaze.

“It would still be fun to try, don’t you think?” John asked, smiling over at him. Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment before shrugging, standing smoothing and brushing his hands together.

“I’ll go see. Just a moment.” He took off, striding purposefully across the grounds in the direction of the greenhouse.

John watched him go, admiring his lean form guiltily while Sherlock wouldn’t see. He really was a beautiful man.

He turned his attention back to the birds when Sherlock was out of sight, watching various colors and sizes as they flew back and forth between the trees, tweeting and chattering at each other happily. There were quite a lot of them, for this time of year. John picked at a slice of bread on his plate and threw it over towards the trees, sighing as the birds ignored him.

Some number of minutes later Sherlock returned victorious, a bag of bird seed in hand. He set it on the table in front of John and glanced dubiously at the birds as John bent forward to reach into the bag and grab and handful of seed. He grasped tightly, but the seed still fell out of the sides of his fist like water. He grinned up at Sherlock as he stood, motioning for him to follow as he walked closer to the trees, tossing bits of seed on the snow a few feet away from them. They stood still and waited as the moments went by and the birds ignored them. John was beginning to get disappointed, until a Sparrow flew down and landed on the snow near the base of the tree, eyeing the seed and the two of them, it's heading twitching this way and that.

John held his breath, a childlike excitement tingling through his limbs. The sparrow hopped closer, jabbing its beak at a bit of seed, then another. Before they could react, another bird flew down, followed quickly by four more.

John snuck a glance up at Sherlocks face, finding him wide eyed, lips slightly parted. His jawline was easily visible from this angle, the scales along the edge barely visible, the spines over his head appeared almost soft. On impulse, John reached over and took Sherlock's hand, and his face snapped to John’s. John tugged his hand up and turned his palm, depositing seed into it and jerking his chin over to the birds.  

It was only a moment, that brief moment of contact, when their hands had been touching and their gazes had been locked, but John hadn’t missed it. He hadn’t missed the way Sherlock’s pupils had swollen visibly, and they way his throat contracted when he swallowed. John struggled not to react, not to be too obviously affected, but he could feel the flush across his own skin, the way his breath caught in his throat.

Then it was over. Sherlock was looking away, back towards the birds. He tossed a bit of seed towards them, sending a few fluttering away in surprise before they flew back down eagerly. John watched as they hopped closer and closer, Sherlock leaned down slowly, until he was resting on his knees, tossing bits of seed to birds that were close enough to reach out and touch.

“Hold out your hand Sherlock. Palm up, keep it open and still.” John murmured, taking a slow step back. Sherlock obeyed, keeping so still that he could have been as frozen as the scenery. It didn’t take long.

One of the birds, a pretty little blue thing, fluttered up and landed on the tip of his claws, tilting its head to the side to stare at Sherlock with one beady little eye. John held his breath as it hopped down into Sherlock’s palm and pecked at a bit of seed, keeping its eye on Sherlock.

It took only a few minutes before Sherlock’s arm and hand were covered in birds. It was an amazing sight. John had taken a few more steady steps back, until he was closer to the table. If Sherlock had heard, he hadn’t moved. He seemed enraptured, unwilling to even twitch a muscle in fear of scaring the birds away. John wished he could capture this moment, to keep it forever in his mind, this small bit of peace and happiness with Sherlock.

True to his character however, he soon thought of a way to disrupt the tranquility that he loved to think he craved. An idea came to mind, and he nearly dismissed it out of fear of Sherlock’s reaction. Would he be angry? John wasn’t sure. It could easily backfire. But… it could also bring Sherlock further out of his shell. Was it worth the risk?

It was a while later, long enough for John's hands to start going numb, before Sherlock made to stand. As soon as he moved to bring a leg up, the birds scattered, returning to their safe branches as Sherlock brought himself slowly to his feet. John's arm tensed, and just as Sherlock began to turn towards him, the packed ball of snow collided solidly with his bony shoulder.  

Sherlock flinched, looking wildly to John, bewilderment on his face as he glanced down at his snow dusted shoulder. He looked back up at John, eyes wide as he caught sight of the other snowball in John’s hand, ready to be thrown.

John smirked, his body language tense but open, trying to relay that this was a game, not a threat. He twitched his hand back, showing that he was going to throw again. Sherlock frowned, his mouth opening to question John just as the snowball nailed him in the chest. He took a step back, sputtering out the snow that had flown into his open mouth. John let out a laugh.

“Have you ever had a snow fight before Sherlock?” He called out, smirking once again.

“I… yes, once. But-”

“Then get ready. I’m an army trained veteran, think you can best me?” He goaded sweetly, challenging. He kept his stance ready but at ease, trying not to show his nervousness. Sherlock studied him for a moment more, head cocked to the side and brows drawn together, before John saw the tug at his lips. He exhaled silently in relief.

“As you wish, Doctor Watson. I must warn you, my own strength is unpredictable. I’ll try not to hurt you.” He said, bending down easily to scoop and handful of snow into his clawed fingers. John’s body tightened in excitement, eyes watchful as he mirrored Sherlock's movement.

The air was still around them, sun still shining while the birds flew from limb to limb of the trees overhead. A quick survey of their surroundings gave John many ideas for cover, he could easily duck down behind a hedge or step around the trunk of tree. They stood silently, watching each other, waiting.

“You know, John…” Sherlock took a slow, deliberate step to one side, circling around the table displaying their forgotten lunch. “From an observer's standpoint, I’ve always found social experiments fascinating. The language of the human body is complex, ever changing while at the same time, often boorishly predictable.” He brought a slender hand to his lips as he spoke, and John felt his eyes drawn to the movement. “For example…” He ran a finger slowly across his lower lip, as though wiping away food or spittle. “Such a distraction is pleasingly successful when it comes to you.”

By the time John realized what had happened, it was too late. The snowball hit him square in the jaw, exploding and dropping bits of ice down the front of his shirt. He swore with feeling, ducking to the side as Sherlock threw another. The skin of his face and throat ached fiercely, Sherlock had not been joking. He had quite the arm.

The second one missed, but barely. John reached around the bush he was crouching behind to launch the snowball in his hand, but Sherlock twisted deftly out of the way. John was already packing another ball in his hand by the time he ducked back down. They tossed a few more back and forth, John from his maintained position behind the shrubbery and Sherlock from behind the trunk of a peach tree. John almost caught him in the face, but it hit the tree trunk instead. Sherlock managed to land one on top of John’s head, earning a curse and laugh.

John used a near hit to distract his opponent, quickly abandoning his post and darting on quick feet to a nearby statue. The woman, white and staring, wore nothing but robes draped over her curved form, and was wide enough to offer adequate cover. Sherlock pelted snowballs at his heels, catching him once in the ankle before he was safely hidden.

“Your aim leaves a little to be desired Sherlock!” John called, laughing, puffs of steamed air coming from between his lips. His fingers were red and numb from the snow, but his body was warm and full of energy.

“I do not believe you’re qualified to judge. The only blows you’ve landed where before the game properly started!” Sherlock called back, a smile in his voice.

“Oy! They count!” John scolded, trying to keep the giggle out of his voice. His trembling fingers closed around another tightly packed ball as he peeked slowly around the side of the statue. Sherlock was either hiding very well behind the tree, or he had moved. Alarmed, John moved forward another few inches, searching for black spines or the glint of red scales.

The back of his neck erupted with stinging cold and pain. John howled, surging forward to find different cover, cursing Sherlock as his fingers scrabbled over the back of his neck. Deep laughter behind him left him flushed and hot with irritation and sudden desire. He slid forward in his haste to duck behind another hegde, breathing quickly as snow melted down his back.

“You cock! I’ll get you back for that, I swear!” He yelled, voice hoarse. More laughter. John swore under his breath.

Sherlock had taken his position behind the fountain, silver eyes narrowed with mirth in his direction when John peeked through the wiry branches. A plan forming in his mind, John scraped his blunt fingers against the ground, lips quirking up in a hard smile at the sight of those claws resting against the hip of the statue. He wasn’t far from a corner of the castle. Quickly judging the distance, John packed the snow in his hands as tight as he could, hiding it in the folds of his jacket. He then picked up another handful, working it quickly in his hands.

Getting swiftly to his feet, John lunged, launching the snowball right at those clawed fingers. He kept moving, hearing Sherlock's sharp inhale, letting him know that his aim was true. Just as he thought his ploy would be unsuccessful, John turned to glance back just in time for the snowball to nail him in the side of the head. A groan, he was falling, twisting, catching sight of a figure in one of the many windows of the castle. He squinted, surely he was mistaken, there was no one in the castle, Sherlock had said so himself. Then he was hitting the ground, forgetting all about the figure in the window.

The snow was cold against his hair, he rolled, grimacing as he slipped a hand into his jacket.

“John! John, are you alright?” Sherlock was leaning over him, knees in the snow as his hands probed gently at John’s head. John’s eyes were closed against the brightness but he could feel the warmth of Sherlock's breath on his face.

“Sherlock,” He gritted, bringing his free hand up to his head.

“John I- I am so sorry. I didn’t mean- Are you alright?” He asked again urgently. John opened his eyes a fraction, it was a mistake. Sherlock was so close, he could have reached up and kissed him. His determination faltered.

His head throbbed, he groaned again, this one completely unfaked. His hand tightened.

“Sherlock,” he breathed.

“Yes? John, yes?” Sherlock answered, his silver eyes tight with worry as he leaned over John’s face.

“Such a distraction is pleasingly successful when it comes to you.” He murmured, letting himself smile. Sherlock frowned, and John just began to see the realization dawn in his eyes before his hand came up and smashed the snowball into Sherlock's mouth.

John laughed, groaning as Sherlock jerked, spluttering and spitting snow out of his gorgeous lips. He had expected Sherlock to stand, to move away, but his grip on John’s head only tightened in response. The surprise in his eyes gave way to humor as he spat the last of the snow onto the ground, still leaning heavily over John. John grinned up at him, admiring the way the sunlight glinted off of his spines.

The air between them changed, became hotter. The cold bite of the snow was forgotten as John watched the amusement in Sherlock’s eyes fade slowly into something softer. Breathing was suddenly more challenging, the feel of warm hands on the side of his jaw was overwhelming. Sherlock's fingers were pressed firmly to his neck and cheek, his pulse thrumming quickly against hard claws.

John swallowed, so _aware_ of every place that Sherlock was pressed against him. A firm thigh against his own, the touch of a forearm against his chest, warm fingers fluttering over his skin. Sherlock’s lips were parted, his pupils swollen, gaze darting between John’s eyes and his mouth. John licked his dry lips out of habit and the movement drew Sherlock a fraction closer, almost as though he was unaware of the movement.

It was impossible to mistake that for something else. Heart thrumming a steady, eager rhythm, John took a chance. He brought his hand up, placing it tenderly on the side of Sherlock’s neck in encouragement. Sherlock blinked slowly at the contact, letting out a shaky breath before locking his gaze with Johns again.

He leaned down slowly, John allowed himself to press down on Sherlock's neck, bringing him closer until their lips touched. There was still hesitance, their noses bumped gently until John turned his head to the side, fitting them more firmly together. The contrast between the ice beneath him and the heat of Sherlock’s body above him made him shiver. Sherlock read his body like a book, moving in closer, one leg moving to rest between John’s as their chests pressed closer.

Not enough, it wasn’t enough. Bold, John swiped his tongue briefly across Sherlock’s lower lip. Sherlock’s uncertainty broke. He groaned, and the sound went right to John’s dick. John reached down, gripping Sherlock’s hip with numb fingers as Sherlock’s tongue assaulted his mouth. Holding more tightly to his neck, John nipped at the tender appendage, sucking it a bit before releasing it and allowing his own to chase it back into Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock’s thigh pressed down into John’s groin and he gasped, thrusting up against the warmth as his hands began to roam. Sherlock’s body was slender but firm, his hipbones were particularly fascinating. John let his fingers dig in for a moment, earning another thrust between his legs. He could feel the long line of Sherlock’s cock pressed into his hip and reveled in it, wanting to touch, to rub, to lick and suck. The urge took him by surprise.

He wasn’t allowed time to linger, Sherlock bit down on his lower lip and John cried out, grinding up into any piece of Sherlock he could use to gain friction. His hand on Sherlock’s neck jerked up into his hair-shock, _his hair_ \- grabbing a thick handful and using it to ground him. Sherlock’s long body rolled, starting in his neck and moving down his spine into his hips, pushing them into John again.

“Ah! Sherlock I-” Words left him as Sherlock’s mouth moved down to his throat, nipping with dangerously sharp teeth before sucking hard on the scar of the bite wound at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. John’s hips jerked, his hand flying from Sherlock’s side around to the swell of his ass, pulling him down ever closer. John gripped his hair again.

“Sherlock, your ha-”

“No! John no, don’t.” Sherlock breathed, shaking his head as he snuck a clawless hand under John’s shirt. John nodded and gasped as warm fingers explored his lower stomach. So much, yet not enough. John’s hands continued to roam. Flesh, warm flesh everywhere. He hiked up Sherlock's tucked in shirt, rubbing and kneading over the smooth skin of his back, feeling the absence of scales and plates of spine and bone.

Sherlock left one wet lingering kiss on John’s collarbone before attacking his mouth again, eager and a little sloppy in his haste. John didn’t mind. They continued to thrust into each other, finding a rhythm that soon left them breathless. John opened his eyes, squinting at the brightness as Sherlock moved around to nip and suck at his ear, his hot fingers dipping lower into the waistband of John’s trousers.

Just as he felt the hand, _Sherlock’s hand_ , grip him, he saw the edge of the roof above them shift. The generous pile of snow that had built up on the edge was trembling, bits falling down and landing inches to the side of their bodies. John’s breath hitched, awareness struggling to return even as his body begged to let go. Sherlock’s hot, so hot, tongue scraped along the edge of his jaw over and over as though he couldn’t get enough of the stubble on John’s face.

The roof ledge shifted again, John heard a faint crack as more snow began to fall. That amount of snow could bury them. Protective instinct kicking in, John exploded into action. He grabbed Sherlock and shoved, rolling them over to the side and covering Sherlock's upper body with his own, his elbows in the snow and his hands over his own head as the snow fell down around them.

It beat around his body, heavier than it looked, but John was firm as he grimaced down at Sherlock, who’s eyes were wide, his face in John’s chest. When the snow stopped they were entirely covered, the cold pressing down around them, suffocating. John shivered violently, thrusting an arm out, trying to dig them out of the side of the pile around them.

“John wait, let me.” Sherlock rolled under him, digging them out, rising to his knees and taking John’s hand to pull him up as well. They stood, breathing heavily as they surveyed the broken ledge and the snow that had fallen. The worst of it missed them, thanks to John’s quick reflexes.

Sherlock glanced over at him, frowning. “You’re freezing.” He stated bluntly.

“I was just fine before that happened. More than fine.” John braved, smiling over at Sherlock, who had the audacity to blush. His hair had hardened and flattened into spines against his skull, making him look contrite and disappointed. The scales on his neck and throat glittered as he swallowed.

“Come, lets go back in. We can… warm ourselves in front of the fire.” He managed, gesturing with a clawed hand for John to follow him back up to the castle. John sighed, nodding.

It was as they were walking back to the steps in silence that John suddenly remembered the figure in the window.

**  
**  
  



End file.
